Don't Leave Me
by Sherlock.bbcfanfiction
Summary: Sequel to 'Don't Touch Me'. The 'verse were John's telepath. After defeating Moriarty, John returns from the dead to a broken Sherlock. What is in store for them? Why hurt and comfort of course. With appearances from Mystrade and a new Sergeant that may or may not be a critical piece to John's gift, as well as an old enemy that may disrupt everything John has worked so hard to fix.
1. Chapter 1: Coming Home

_**So heres the deal. I sort of abandoned this sequel, partly because I lost interest but mostly because I didn't know where to go with it. **_

_**I think I have some ideas now. **_

_**What I'm going to do is revise all of the chapters so far, extend them and even change some of the details so it flows better.**_

_**I started with Chapter 1 (obviously).**_

_**Thanks to those who reviewed even though I was a bastard and didn't update. Hopefully that will change now. **_

_**Even if you've read this sequel I suggest you read the chapters again because they will be a little bit different and longer.**_

_**Peace&Love**_

_**Sophie**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>One month after John's death...<strong>_

The former detective, for Sherlock hasn't taken a case since, well since _John,_ sits in his darkened sitting room. The curtains, all dark colors and blocking out the early light of dawn. Bottles of vodka litter the flat. An interesting fact, considering that Sherlock barely remembers buying them. He hardly remembers the telltale burn as they as they trickle down his throat. The only thing that punches through to his memory is the nasty taste, sharp and bitter, as it soils his mouth from the first sip to the inevitable time where he blacks out.

Regardless, they serve their purpose.

The former detective sits upon their couch- no, no, no,-his couch. He doesn't remember the last time he's moved, but there is an unopened bottle in front of him. It must not have been too long ago then. Or, maybe its been sitting their unopened all night? He doesn't know or care to know.

Time passes funny for Sherlock these days. Sometimes, it's just one big cliché blur from one point to the next. Other days, a day like today, Sherlock Holmes is able to count every passing, agonizing second with extreme clarity.

He thinks that he's drank multiple bottles but he can't really be sure. He's only focused on one thing.

The anniversary.

Not just any anniversary. Today is _one month_ since John's death, murder.

That's why he got this, he thinks as he rolls the object in his hand. Something to help his pain, something he hasn't craved in years. The tiny vial glistens in his hand, despite the darkness. There is a hum in the back of his mind, observations that seem dull and distant but Sherlock ignores them. Improbabilities in his head along with other useless things that can get people killed. Things that _have _gotten people killed.

Sherlock outwardly winces at the thought and grips the vial tightly. He turns it in his hand with familiarity and a bit of apprehension. In the background, what is left of his rational mind can hear the beginning of London awakening but the once great detective is all but focused on the vial in his hand, well the vial and the needle that is still laying on the table.

His needle, once thought to be his friend in life before but even now, Sherlock realizes the desperation and downright pathetic lie he once told himself.

Yet, the needle shins with tempting seduction. He carefully puts the vial down next to his thin, sharp friend and leans back into the settee. His hands rest on his knees, clutching at the fabric and the craving that lays thickly in the flat. He could just reach out and take it and no one would really know. Mycroft isn't meant to come around until tomorrow. He could get away with it.

But then, what does he care about Mycroft. The man is a nuisance at best. John is dead.

This may speed up time or at least let him forget for a while. Sherlock's used to his brain and the never ending thoughts and observations but they just won't stop. With the observations come the memories and the thoughts of adoration. Flashes of _the _blonde man assault his conscious mind constantly. They are fast and don't care what pain they cause the former detective.

He is tired of thinking, he's tired of pain. He remembers the lips and the hair. The stupid jumpers that Sherlock wordlessly finds- found -endearing. He remembers the closeness and intimacy he shared both physically and mentally to the one person who had been his other half.

Even now, he can feel the gentle tug of someone else in his brain. He no longer reacts with glee to the observation and is well aware that the mental tug he feels is a phantom feeling, a transparent longing that is tricking his brain into believing realities that are untrue.

John is dead. His mind supplies for him once again. Its been a month.

One month, Christ.

He can no longer stay strong. The younger man sighs heavily as he picks up the needle, shimmering in the dark room like a beacon of hope. Something to make him forget.

The brunette's phone chirps shrilly but he ignores it. He favors looking at the needle instead of the memories clogging up his tool, his brain. He wants the numbness to comfort him.

As he reaches for the vial in frustration something goes off in his head, a sort of alarm ringing incessantly.

_"Sherlock, you are wasting almost six years of sobriety."_ His inner voice has his same cool tone with clinical detachment. He considers telling it to sod off. Doesn't it understand that he just wants to be numb? The man picks up a vial and rolls it in his palm again.

_"John wouldn't want this." _His conscience tries again and what a low blow that is. The thought freezes the young man with such a fierce sense of anger and longing that Sherlock physically shakes his head. Tears are already starting to fall.

_He _wouldn't want this, his own bloody conscience is right. The vial drops to the ground with a clink and the needle follows shortly after. The younger man's head is in his hands and the tears fall freely, dripping upon the carpet without shame.

_"John."_ Sherlock pushes out mentally while he sits in his messy flat in the middle of London. For the rest of the day he curls into the couch and tries to sleep but he just ends up crying. He cries for an indefinite amount of time, writhing through every antagonizing second, his hysterics keeping him from passing into unconsciousness. All the while, wishing and calling for John and knowing that there will never be a response.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Same Day but Across Seas...<strong>_

_"John."_

A man bolts awake with a fevered shout. His chest heaves with short, shallow and uncontrollable breaths. Sweat glistens and slides down his naked chest.

The baritone, the voice that never leaves him, still vibrates within his mind. The grief that accompanies the voice is so heart wrenching that tears automatically spring to the man's eyes.

It's not even the first time this week.

John Watson, a man who is being forced (hidden) in a cottage somewhere in the snowy mountains of Switzerland. He's isolated from people by a physical barrier of many miles, a hundred at least considering the fact that he can hardly reach anyone mentally without straining.

He wipes furiously at his eyes, not mad at the cause but at the situation, never mad at Sherlock. He sighs, a deep breathing that echoes throughout his entire body, and gets out of the scratchy sheets that make up his temporary bed.

Oh god, how he wishes it is just temporary.

It's still early in the morning John gathers as he walks from the bedroom to the tiny kitchen and the only window in the cottage (despite the fantastic view of the Alps just out his window). Mycroft claims that the windowless cottage is for his protection.

Protection from whom? Everyone thinks that John Watson, reliable, ex-army doctor, is dead.

John tries to dispel the bitterness within him but that will always be a losing battle. He shivers slightly as he goes about making tea, the only thing he has done really in the last month while he is 'hiding'.

That still doesn't mean that it taste anything but bitter and sour every time he makes it.

_"John."_

The man clutches the granite countertop with white knuckles, peering out the window looking for strength. He would give anything to see that familiar London skyline or even the alleyway from _his _kitchen window, the one that looks down to the bins. He wishes he could hear the honking and bustling of a busy city. Instead, he is forced with a view of white blankets that mock him with their blandness and the only sounds of the wind to keep him company.

_"John."_

Oh yes, mustn't forget the voice. John lowers his head welcoming the torturous voice that he misses so much. And it really is torture, pure and dilated torture. To hear the man he loves so undoubtedly is like a sticking a hot poker through his heart.

Every time.

And, what makes it so much worse is the knowledge that under any circumstances, he cannot answer the wailings of his name. He can't talk back, no one is to know that he is still alive.

_"John."_

The man doesn't go back to sleep. He stands, looking out the window with tense shoulders and a heavy heart, forcing himself to stay awake. It's the least he can do considering he is the cause of the misery and hopelessness on the other end. The blond cries and cries, while the callings fade in and out over the course of the day, until finally, sleep grabs him fitfully.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Two Months <strong>_

"Sherlock, for Christ sake." The ever greying DI yells at his former consultant and tentative friend. His eyes rove around the flat, bulging a bit at the ridiculous mess. Glasses, vials, bottles, trash, clothes and needles scattered about the floor, seeming like there is no carpet or flooring underneath.

The older man surveys the mess reproachfully, with an unspoken admiration of how one man can make such a big mess, before landing his gaze upon the former detective, who doesn't even notice his existence, or at least doesn't acknowledge it. The younger man is pale, so pale, with bruises under his eyes such a deep purple they look almost black. The air is stale around him and the DI doubts that there hasn't been any fresh air circulated throughout the flat in weeks. After standing still for minutes, waiting for an answer, a reaction really anything from Sherlock, the DI finally decides to do something.

"Sherlock." He says gently walking through the mess towards the small bundle of man curled into the settee like he is hiding. Lestrade gets closer and with each step tries to stifle gasps that want to escape his lips. The younger man looks far worse closer up. He is gaunt and if Greg hadn't stopped to talk to Mrs. Hudson before coming up here he would have assumed that Sherlock hadn't been eating.

The dear old mother hen had informed the DI that she has forced Sherlock to eat and thank god for that. Greg can't imagine what Sherlock would look like if he wasn't practically being force-fed.

Probably dead.

The thought slips into his mind so fast and without preamble that Greg winces violently. Death is what got Sherlock into this situation to begin with and is the reasoning behind Sherlock's appearance.

As he gets closer to the former detective, Greg plops down on the far side of the couch away from Sherlock, who flinches slightly but enough for the older man to notice.

"I thought we were over this." The DI says softly, angling his body slightly away from Sherlock to be non-threatening.

Sherlock turns his head with a glower aimed at Lestrade with a weak intensity. The older man worries, has been ever since he got the call on that fateful day.

"Sherlock, you've got to move on." Lestrade says and realizes at once that those words came out rather wrong.

Sherlock's glower turns into an intense glare and swiftly, far more swiftly than Lestrade would have imagined, the thin man is off the sofa and leaning against the far window.

"Sherlock, that's not. I didn't mean..I don't.." Lestrade stutters trying to explain himself or at least apologize for implying that Sherlock's grief would just go away by moving on.

"Look, you can't keep living like this. The flats a mess and-" Lestrade says gesturing around the room, eyes scanning before looking down at his feet. His eyes catch something that makes him stop mid-sentence. A glass vial has tipped over on the floor, its contents leaking out on the carpet.

It doesn't take a genius to know what Sherlock has been up to and rage implode within the DI.

"Just what the hell are you playing at?!" Greg yells, startling the younger man into looking his way. Greg picks up the nearly empty bottle and hold it up for Sherlock to see.

"This is unacceptable." Greg screams while standing up, intending to march over to the man standing by the window and smacking him upside the head. But Greg stops half way there, partly because of Sherlock's eyes. They look hollow but Greg can see a shimmer of unbearable grief that is so consuming that Greg needs to look away.

Lestrade changes his tactics. He sighs softly and runs a nervous hand through his hair.

"This can't keep going on." Lestrade starts looking around the room for a place to start while heading to the kitchen.

Sherlock doesn't move other than to turn his face back towards the window. Lestrade knows the grief of losing a loved one, he understands that Sherlock is just coping, however self-destructive it is. The only thing the DI can do is help and try to stray him away from some of the more dangerous coping methods.

"John wouldn't want this." Lestrade calls from the kitchen, having found a trash bag and starting his clean up. He puts endless bottles of vodka and other liquors into the bag with clanking and clinking noises. He finds more needles just laying haphazardly on the countertops and throws them into the black bag more violently than the liquor.

Meanwhile, Sherlock stills stands against the window. "You would know nothing of what John would want." Sherlock says quietly and without venom. His heart aches.

_"John." _

The former detective can hear Lestrade messing around in the kitchen and he can't even make himself care. The thumping and clattering of his month-long mess doesn't even register in Sherlock's awareness.

_"John."_

It is unhealthy and illogical and yet, it's his worse vice of all. He can feel the phantom tugging in his brain constantly and he insist on calling for his doctors, all hours of the day. He hopes with every wailing or soft mutter through the connection that something will change. Once, long ago before Sherlock knew better, he could feel flickers of emotions pass through the phantom connection and he would jump up and down with glee before the reality would crash all around him. Now, when he feels things through the hallucinated connection he knows it's not real. The doctor is dead and Sherlock Holmes is hallucinating. In these occasions, Sherlock doesn't leave their, no, _his_ bedroom for days. His thoughts and memories torturing him as much as the vials of his vices that stare at him temptingly.

A sudden sound behind the genius breaks him out of his reverie.

"Are you even listening to me?" Lestrade voice is angry and loud but Sherlock doesn't turn or even flinch away.

Sherlock is tired, so exhausted. He doesn't care anymore and he has literally lost all will to live.

"I didn't use them." Sherlock whispers but the DI heard it.

"What are you going on about?" Greg says, not unkindly.

"I wouldn't- John, wouldn't- I-" Sherlock stumbles just as Lestrade had before.

The DI shifts and the clinking of glass makes him realize that Sherlock is talking about the drugs.

"Why?" Greg asks helplessly. Why didn't you use them? Why are they here? Why can't we help you? Sherlock hears these questions being asked from that one little word.

But, he just shakes his head with a disheartened dismissal that doesn't even cause Greg to blink.

"Sherlock!" The DI calls with annoyance and the genius lowers his head before turning to the face the man.

"Why are they here?" Lestrade's voice is quieter, softer even. Sherlock shrugs defensively and turns back to the window.

The former detective is punishing himself. For what? That remains to be seen.

Sherlock notices the rustling of a garbage bag and clinking of glass containers indicating that Lestrade is shifting nervously.

"Go away, Detective Inspector." Sherlock's voice is resigned and defeated. Lestrade is too worried, far more worried now than the years when Sherlock actually was a drug addict.

"Sherlock-" The DI starts moving his body towards the lanky man.

Sherlock suddenly explodes. "GO AWAY!" He shouts while turning to face the DI. His face is red and twisted in angry. "I don't want you here!"

Lestrade backs up slightly. He can rely on his instincts and even anger when dealing with an aggravated Sherlock but this Sherlock is so wrapped in guilt that it makes the DI's mind go blank with helplessness. He is surprised at the sudden outburst and doesn't know what to do. Lestrade ships again, this time hesitantly, the former detective is so distant and unstable and really shouldn't be alone.

Sherlock, who is now facing the graying man, lowers his head again. "Just go, Lestrade." The younger man pleads and Lestrade sighs in compliance.

"All right, Sherlock." Greg acquiesces softly before turning towards the landing. "He's worried about you."

Sherlock doesn't move and knows exactly who Lestrade is talking about. He keeps his back slouched and his head down.

"If Mycroft is so worried, he can come himself." Sherlock snaps and rushes past Lestrade with a gust of air, stomping to the bathroom and slamming the door. He seethes in the bathroom as he clambers into the shower, not even bothering to take his clothes off. The front door shuts and the flat is left in silence.

The genius spends the rest of the afternoon in the bathroom. At first the water is scalding, burning against the genius with intensity. He doesn't even notice when the temperature changes at first. Minutes later, the back of his mind registers the cold that is seeping through his bones, bit by bit. The young man shivers as the water goes from luke warm to cold in the hour that he sits on the floor of the tub with his knees drawn to his chest and his whole body rocking with despair.

_"John. I miss you."_ The genius calls pathetically as he grips his clothed, soaked knees to his body.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Three Months After John's Death...<strong>_

There are many regrets that John has in his life and he can safely say that most of the major ones have occured in the last three months of his life. The biggest regret being the most self-explainatory. Leaving Sherlock, lying to Sherlock, making Sherlock believe him dead.

However, at this moment, there is a regret that John just can't stop thinking about. He regrets not testing the distance of their connection before now.

The headache could possibly be killing him, not that John would mind some peace right about now. Between Mycroft ridiculous relocations so that John can remain a secret and having a second person in his head 24/7, John hasn't slept a night through in all these months.

The headache seems to ache more intensely as John rises from his (temporary) bed in Italy, sighing with exhaustion. He was half asleep when Mycroft came storming into his Indian safe house, (why India, John will never know) and dragged the doctor across the continent to somewhere along the outskirts of Rome.

_"John."_

There are constant declarations of love and voices throughout the day, multiple times a day and Sherlock's thoughts have become more than routine for John. He doesn't (can't) sleep anymore. With every thought of Sherlock's being pushed, it's hard to close one's eyes.

Not to mention that the white noise, it's consistent and makes John want to tear his bloody hair out.

And Mycroft stole his (temporary) MP3 player so there is no chance of blocking it out.

The doctor trudges through the safe house with tired steps. He's never been more tired in his life before now, he's also hasn't cried more or made this much tea before.

_"John." _

The blonde man sighs heavily and goes about making tea.

The worst part about the whole thing, is that he doesn't blame the genius. He could never fault the man for his grieving.

But it's all becoming to much. John is so close to snapping and opening the link between them, telling the detective that he is alive.

He can't do it. It would destroy everything that has happened in the past three months. Now that Mycroft has finally decided to share some of his plans with John, they've gotten stuff done. Telling Sherlock now, would dismantled everything Mycroft and John have prepared, everything John has sacrificed. Especially now that they are so close.

It would be counterproductive and selfish and all because he can't bare the torture and the agony of the baritone's communications and speakings of love.

_"Get a hold of yourself, Watson."_ He chastises himself, shaking his head a bit to clear the gloom. He is close, so bloody close. Revealing himself to Sherlock and in turn the world would only hinder all the work he has done. He has finally found Moriarty's hiding spot and he will be able to infiltrate and destroy the man. He can't give that up now. He's got the advantage this time.

He is the only person in the world the telepathic criminal mastermind will never _hear_ coming.

_"John."_

The doctor grips the counter with one hand as he sets down his tea in the other.

Sherlock's thoughts are becoming more forlorn and agonizing. John thinks something has changed. The genius's thoughts are just as strong but they are weaker, defeated almost.

He's talked to Mycroft more than once about it but the older Holmes insists that Sherlock is fine and John is worry unnecessarily.

_Unnecessarily. _

John wants to punch that man some time. Nevertheless, the doctor has to take his word as truth. Oh god, he hopes it's true. He hopes that Sherlock is okay because if he isn't this would be for naught.

The desperate pleadings and musings of Sherlock that get sent across the connection don't quell John's apprehension, more so they make him more concerned.

That's why John knows the politician is lying but the blogger sort of revels in the falsified truth, the only reprieve he gets from his guilt these days. He just has to hope that Sherlock will be able to hold together until John gets back.

_"It won't be long now, Sherlock."_ The doctor thinks to himself before placing the mug into the tiny sink.

The doctor moves to his tiny cottage window (what's with the universal safe house one window minimum anyways) looking out into this foreign country.

_"John. I miss you."_

_"John. How can you do this to me?"_

__"John. Why did you leave me?"__

John sighs moving back to his suitcase and grabs the clothes that he needs for the day.

Today is the day, they have finally found where Moriarty and Mycroft's men are going to ambush his lair.

All John has to do is follow the blood.

* * *

><p>An hour and a half later, John sits in a unmarked black car that screams Mycroft all over. The blonde man shifts restlessly on the black leather seat as he watches a small jet land on the tarmac.<p>

He didn't even know that Mycroft was going to be here personally for this endeavor. In fact, John wasn't scheduled to leave the safe house until another hour. However, a rough knock on his door and a phone call from the man himself, John now finds himself waiting for the elder Holmes.

John knows the politician despises leg work. If it wasn't the main source of complaint that Sherlock would talk about regarding his brother, the blogger would have seen the disgust in the man's own head. In fact, the rare times that John has read Mycroft there had been one or two thoughts about leg work and the delegation of duties to his employees. The man really hates leg work.

So, the fact that he is here at all has sent John into small panic for the entirety of the forty-five minute care ride.

Paranoia and general worry are starting to set John's teeth on edge.

The jet lands a little ways away from the car and the doctor is watching with a bland eagerness to see Mycroft. He sends out a tendril of his gift, trying to find out exactly why the older man is here. Unfortunately, Mycroft has learned a few tricks since John has 'died' because all John gets from the man is endless jibberish, in german.

Which just frustrates John more.

John scans the driver again, even though he's been doing it routinely since they left the cottage. Mostly to make sure that he isn't being kidnapped but a small part of him wants to know if the driver knows anything.

He doesn't.

John watches with annoyance as the familiar politician walks briskly over to the car, his trusty umbrella pulled tight against his body and a briefcase swaying at his side.

The door opens and the older man climbs gracefully in and motions to the driver to take off, while John sighs with irritation. They aren't really on the best of terms in general and Mycroft being here is bound to complicate things. Either bureaucratically or emotionally, at least in John's case.

A flare of white noise descends upon John with a sharp vehemence causing the blogger to pinch the bridge of his nose in pain and exasperation. The white noise of Italy has caused more problems for John than any of the multiple locations he has been in the last three months.

He can't help but wonder if its a connection to Moriarty being close or if its purely coincidence.

John isn't sure if he wants to know.

John tries to push back the white noise to a dull ache in the back of his mind as he turns his head slightly to gaze Mycroft.

The politician, while being instrumental in keeping the doctor hidden and safe, hasn't been in John's physical presence since that day at the hospital. The man hasn't changed even though its felt like he is the first familiar face John has seen in years. The cheekbones remind John achingly of the younger Holmes.

John shuts down that thought before it could get free and interfere with what it about to happen.

On the other side of the car Mycroft is looking at John and assessing the doctor with a silent gaze. Whereas Mycroft hasn't changed, John sure has, emotionally and physically. The months of practically no sleep have taken their strenuous toll on the blonde man. He looks haggard and scruffy despite his almost clean shaven skin. His frame has thinned out emphasizing cheeks that have hallowed and gained a disturbing gauntness to them that makes him look unhealthy. He wears sunglasses, possibly to keep the white noise out, but Mycroft can see the deep purple bruises under his eyes regardless of the frames covering them.

Mycroft concludes that the doctor doesn't look well.

Somehow this stray though floats over the connection and John is rapt with sudden attention. However, because of the content he scowls nastily.

"No shit." He mumbles in reply and tenses, pulling his limbs closer to himself, all the while making himself appear even smaller and weak.

Mycroft lets out a reproachful stare and John waves a hand dismissively and sends feelings of anger, smugness and disapproval. _"Don't even start."_

For a second, John regrets that he just reverted to the emotional code. He immediately pulls out of the politician and turns away. It has been so long since the doctor has communicated mentally with anyone and it causes more emotional and upheavals than John has time to deal with right now. He needs to focus on Moriarty. He can think about home and London and _Sherlock_ after. Right now, the game is on.

The politician ignores John's crisis and raises his eyes in determined caution as if saying, _"Okay, I'll leave it alone. Just this once."_

John sighs and looks away from the man, just realising that he hasn't seen him in months and they haven't even exchange an expression of formalities.

Right on cue, as if sensing John's thoughts, Mycroft speaks conversationally. "Hello, John."

John turns his head slowly towards the voice and it brings up emotions that John has been feeling for the past months. Bitterness is at the forefront and anger. John was forced into this lie and succeeded in a deep betrayal to his best friend, his lover. For what?

_"For Moriarty."_ John reminds himself with a violent mental shake to himself. The doctor sighs and stares at the older man.

"I didn't know you were coming down here." The doctor remarks questionably, acid in his tone, while at the same time opening up the connection to see if things are okay at home. He is too tired to care about his rules and really, Mycroft's feelings.

Before he can gather information about why Mycroft decided to come himself, the blogger is interrupted.

_"John."_

_"Fantastic."_ John thinks bitterly, perfect timing, really. John can't help but wince at his own mental tone as he guiltiy chastises himself for lashing out at Sherlock. It is not fair of the doctor. He closes his eyes briefly as he tries to reign in his emotions that are getting out of whack.

This exchange doesn't go unnoticed by Mycroft whose lips curl up in a grimace. His face slightly guilt and shameful.

_"Good."_ John thinks, shooting a quick glance over to the politician. _"It's his fault that I'm here."_

"He's still communicating with you." Mycroft raises an eyebrow with surprise, as if he _didn't_ know.

"Bit obvious of a question for you Mycroft." John retorts angrily, putting more blame on Mycroft than on the detective. It's not Sherlock's fault, it never has been. The younger man doesn't know that John is alive or even aware of how much distance the range covers.

The elder Holmes doesn't respond and John turns to look out the window. The midmorning sun's rays are coating the sky as the sedan travels down deserted roads.

"How is he?" John asks after a few minutes barely able to hold his curiosity.

"_He i_s fine." Mycroft answers and John snorts with disbelief. John has been the one hearing the detective for the past three months and he is everything but fine.

"He misses you." The elder Holmes adds after a second of contemplation, as if John didn't know that either.

John scowls. "I got that much." He spits. John doesn't know all the details but he can feel that Mycroft is holding something back, something he doesn't want John to know. In that moment, John considers the elder Holmes. What would he be lying about? How bad is his detective getting on? Is that why he came himself?

John opens his mouth to inquire more but it is Mycroft who waves a hand dismissively.

"It's almost over, John. You will be seeing him in less than forty-eight hours." Mycroft assures and John backs off. The doctor is too tired to ask more and relishes in the fact that he will be able to hold Sherlock in the next day or two. It is enough to placate the doctor, so he stills and continues the ride in silence.

_"John."_

The doctor sighs.

"Mycroft, this can never happen again." John says firmly, looking at the politician.

"No. No, I don't believe it can." The politician answers and the car continues down the road.

* * *

><p><strong>Three Days Later...<strong>

This time of year, London is muggy and rainy. The water that falls from the sky is usually hotter than normal and even more uncomfortable. Not that Sherlock would know the temperature at this moment. He can only hear the pitter-patter of droplets hitting the window. He doesn't even bother to look towards the windows, he knows he'll just see streaks of water flowing down the window.

Not that the quiet occupant of 221B Baker Street notices the weather today anyway, he barely registers the month. Days have blurred into long weeks that in turn, blur into months. Nothing measure time, not sleep or other trivial matters. Occasionally the young man will notice a shift in time if he manages to drift off but that is such a rarity that it hardly ever happens.

The former detective stares to the opposite wall. His eyes roam lazily over his mantle. The skull is sitting prominently off to the left. Its gaze had been mocking and in an angry fit the genius had turn the skull's eyes away.

Sherlock never thought he would grow to hate his skull or even worse, hate Baker Street.

That's what death does, it makes even the strongest succumb to intense hatred.

The genius's mind fills with emotions to such a depth that he can't escape either any of them. Their forms and tendrils capture the former detective with a fierce grip and Sherlock has to bite marks on his tongue as evidences of his resistance to screaming out.

The man sits on his, not theirs, settee with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, tears streaking down his face. The sitting room's windows are actually open thanks to Mrs. Hudson who insisted that Sherlock get away from the dark. The former detective doesn't even register. To him, the room is still dark and gray the colors invisible. The man hasn't had color for the past three months.

"Jesus, John." The man says miserably, trembling slightly. _"Why did you have to leave me?"_

A sudden noise erupts from below and it startles the former detective slightly. He hasn't heard sounds on the steps for a week now. Mrs. Hudson is gone visiting someone Sherlock now, Sherlock remembers her telling him as she scolded him about the windows. She had left food in the fridge (that Sherlock hasn't touched because he would rather starve to death).

The genius doesn't stir from his gloomy musings when recognises the footsteps belong to Lestrade.

At least he is with it enough to notice that someone is coming. A month before he wouldn't have known Lestrade was there until the man would wave a hand in front of Sherlock's face.

Sherlock doesn't feel in the mood for another drug bust, even though the flat is completely clean. On his way to get more drugs one night he stumbled across an alleyway that _they_ had used in one of the many cases and Sherlock had fled home and retched on the sidewalk besides the steps. He hasn't been out since.

Besides, J-his telepath wouldn't want drugs in the flat anyway, even though that fact has gotten harder and harder everyday to obey.

Lestrade's footsteps are hesitant but cheerful and Sherlock is instantly hateful and bitter. The wet noises of rain slicked shoes bounce up the flat stairs to Sherlocks ears and the younger man turns away from the door in preparation.

If it were a different day, Sherlock may have called out to the DI.

If it were a different week, the genius might have texted Lestrade on the way up the stairs.

If it were a different month, the younger man may have bolted to the door and locked it out of childish spite.

If it was a different life, the former detective may have been glad to see Greg.

Not this day, not this week, and definitely not this life. Sherlock stills and waits. He senses when the DI enters the room, his feet shuffling nervously as he comes to stand right in front of him. The genius doesn't even bothering to look up at the Inspector.

"Sherlock," His voice is timid but excited. A frightful combination. Sherlock might have taken the time to deduce the reasoning but the impulse is long gone. It died in that warehouse along with the only person who mattered.

So, the younger man doesn't answer. Instead, he stays sitting on the settee in his own bubble of misery.

"You need to come with me." Lestrade says forcefully but his tone is soft as he sits opposite Sherlock on the coffee table.

The former detective doesn't answer and he doesn't move. Nothing matters to him anymore.

The DI slowly bends his head to catch Sherlock's eyes. When this proves impossible, Lestrade grabs the younger man's chin and makes him look up.

"This is not a request." Lestrade commands and, still, Sherlock doesn't move. His eyes are red and his face is hollow and skinny, much to Lestrade's chagrin.

Sherlock feels a familiar poke in his brain but the genius ignores it. He has been hallucinating that poking for months. It's a phantom poking, regardless of how strong it just felt.

_"Its not real."_ The detective tells himself as he yanks his face away from the DI, standing up to walk away. u

"Sherlock." Lestrade calls following him as the former detective moves towards the kitchen and away from his memories. Lestrade follows him and stands next to the genius.

The poking doesn't stop and Sherlock grips his temples in irritation. He starts to pace around the room quietly.

Emotions fill his brain and sudden waves of alert optimism and surprise acceptance in which Sherlock translates, _"You should listen to him."_

He stops moving directly in front of Greg. Against the former detective's will, one of his arms shoot out and grab one of Lestrade's shoulder for support. His knees buckle slightly and the DI smiles.

Sherlock's eyes shoot to the older man. This isn't happening.

"I knew he couldn't wait." Lestrade smirks nodding with happiness.

"No." Sherlock's head lowers. "I'm going crazy."

He has finally cracked.

"You are not crazy." Lestrade soothes as he grips Sherlock's good shoulder.

Sherlock's head shoots up and looks into Lestrade's face. What is going on? John is dead. This is a hallucination.

"I don't understand." The genius frowns and lets go of the DI continuing to move out of the kitchen, away from Lestrade and hopefully away from the hallucination.

"I think you know." Lestrade remarks by grabbing one of Sherlock's elbows pulling the younger man towards the stairs.

"No!" Sherlock freaks out suddenly. "This isn't real."

Sherlock's breathing picks up and he yanks his elbow away from Greg. He backs away from the graying man with a look of pain and grief on his face.

John is . Sherlock shakes his head and his hands fly to his hair, griping the curls. John is dead.

"Sherlock-" Lestrade starts calmly, putting his hands up in surrender, moving towards the former detective.

"Jo-He is dead. I watched him die. Moriarty killed him." Sherlock screams as he starts to hyperventilate. Lestrade moves closer and Sherlock snaps. He pushes past the DI and down the hallway into their, histheirhis room. He slams the door behind him and locks it.

"No." Sherlock screams and tries to pull his hair out.

"This isn't real. John is dead." Sherlock yells out in a mantra.

He can hear Lestrade's calls from outside his door but the former detective isn't listening. He can't listen. He is too busy pacing furiously.

John is dead. John is dead. Johnisdead. Sherlock repeats the mantra over and over.

He can't breath. His lungs won't expand the way he needs it. His vision is blurring and going fuzzy. No. No. Johnisdead.

The genius spent months trying to accept it and now he is told that all of his pain and suffering was for nothing.

Maybe, maybe he isn't. Sherlock feels that small tether of hope.

No. John is dead. He crushes the thought before it can blossom.

Sherlock screams in frustration, fear, longing, renewed grief. His knees buckle and he falls to the floor. Damn Lestrade for making him hope. Sherlock wraps his long arms around his knees, tucking his head against his legs rocking back and forth.

Lestrade's voice ceases and the detective doesn't move. He keeps repeating 'John is dead' over and over, hoping against hope that he isn't going mad.

* * *

><p>John is tapping his fingers against his knees nervously as he awaits in the car down the road from his flat, <em>their <em>flat.

He gets to see Sherlock again.

For a while in Italy, John didn't think that it would happen.

The resident politician sits opposite him in the stupidly luxurious backseat of the handy sedan, trying very hard not to snap at John for his nerves. At least that what the gist of Mycroft's mind is saying. John is a little rusty at French.

John is just shy of a stupid smile regardless. He gets to see Sherlock.

He wouldn't have to wait this long if Mycroft hadn't won the argument about meeting on neutral grounds. John still doesn't understand why but he is just too focused on seeing Sherlock again that he agreed tentatively. It still seems a little suspicious but when has anything Mycroft ever done not be suspicious at one point or another. But, the doctor still feels a bit of anxiety about the plan but decides not to linger on his doubts too long.

John thought they were going to go right to Baker Street, so imagine the doctor's surprise when the roll up to NSY.

John remembers looking at the elder Holmes in confusion but Mycroft had just waved a hand and said that Sherlock wouldn't leave the flat for him, which John actually agreed with.

But that meant one thing, they needed a neutral party.

They had to tell Lestrade.

That situation, in itself could have gone much worse. John didn't know what to expect from the DI but a sigh of relief and a hug was a surprise.

"John, I'm so glad you are back." Lestrade had said with raw emotion that implied so much more. The doctor tuned into the tone and was about to question it before Mycroft had stepped in with the plan.

And now here John sits, waiting. The plan, originally was to make John wait at the warehouse they were going to drive too but John squashed that adamantly. He couldn't be away from his detective any longer.

It's sheer force of will, (even when he arrived in London and the white noise had immediately ceased so suddenly that John staggered), that he didn't contact Sherlock.

It has been the hardest thing John has ever had to do and he was soldier who toured in Afghanistan _and _was forced away from his soul mate, lover, best friend, for three months.

John sighs internally, tired with jet leg, yet his knees can't stop from bouncing with emotion. Fear, guilt, shame, anticipation, anxiety.

_How will Sherlock react?_

_What if Sherlock can't forgive him?_

The doctor tries to physically shake himself away from bad thoughts and questions and hisses as little dull throbs of pain shoot through his body.

Oh yes, that. He almost forgot his battled with Moriarty not two days ago.

"Your ribs and the knife wound that is barely stitched up are not going to favor you, John, if you continue to be careless." Mycroft deadpans as he raises his eyebrows at the doctor. "Not to mention your concussion that you shouldn't have flown with."

John scoffs at Mycroft condescending mother hen words before leaning back into the car carefully.

"You know those doctors practically cleared my concussion. I stayed overnight and everything. My ribs are wrapped and the stitches are fine, _Mycroft." _John states. His injuries, truthfully, are not very forgiving at this moment but the end result was definitely worth it.

James Moriarty is dead.

But the ex soldier didn't escape his clutches without damage.

John pushes those thoughts away, too. He can't worry about that right now. Sherlock is the only thing he has room for in his head right now.

In moments, he will be able to embrace and kiss and touch the detective and that's all John can think about. He can't afford to let his doubts get in the way.

It's been a whole seven minutes since Lestrade had entered the flat and John is humming with anticipation.

Sod it.

John opens the connection tenderly and is immediately hit with such paralyzing grief that John's face droops into a frown.

_"No..." _The thoughts are panicked and full of despair. John sees the kitchen through Sherlock's eyes and can't help but feel a bit of longing despite the serious situation. His tea kettle is just right there.

"Gregory just told him." John says out loud to no one in particular but Mycroft answers of course.

"I assume he isn't taking it very well." Mycroft remarks.

_"John. This isn't real. You are dead."_ John winces at the pure agony and hurt that Sherlock is pushing through the connection.

Grief and despair. Despairandgrief. Its so deep and crippling that John has to try and turn it down on his end. The emotions, never ending emotions, float through to the doctor and John almost can't take it. After three months of not being able to soothe and communicate and he's had enough.

The connection is practically vibrating with familiarity and John doesn't hesitate.

The doctor sends a wave of optimism, surprise, and acceptance. _"You should listen to him."_

Another flash of grief and panic float through the bond and John resist the urge to cry out due to the vibrancy of the emotions.

_"John is dead."_

John thinks idly for a second. Is this what he expected? Was the doctor expecting this much hurt?

"He's panicking." John comments before closing his eyes. He watches, spellbound, as Sherlock paces furiously and then freaks out. He sees the door to their bedroom slam shut and John's mobile rings.

Surprised and filled with dread, John answers the call.

"He locked himself in the bedroom." The doctor forgoes formalities and already has his hand on the door handle. Mycroft leans forward and places a restraining hand on the doctor's.

"Yeah. He freaked out." Lestrade responds with a underlying tone of worry. "I'm going to pick the lock."

"He doesn't believe you." John says with defeat but glaring at the elder Holmes.

_"John is dead. Johnisdead."_

John winces as the stream of thought comes from Sherlock. He barely hears what Lestrade says next.

"I'd say that's an understatement." The DI remarks and John can hear clattering on the other end of the mobile.

"Mycroft, let me go." John hisses with vehemence and rips his hand away from the politician's grip.

"This is not a good idea." Mycroft responds simply but with determination in his eyes.

"He doesn't believe Greg." John says tersely his gaze blinding with barely restrained fury. Why is Mycroft acting this way?

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

"We need to stick to the plan." The politician says firmly and the doctor scowls.

"The plan has been changed." John is tense and Greg has gone silent on the other side of the phone.

"He is fine." The elder Holmes reassures.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

"Mycroft! He is anything but fine and you know it. You have known it." John shouts as it clicks together and Mycroft has the decency to flinch faintly.

In a weird way Mycroft was trying to protect John. He knew that Sherlock would react badly and he was trying to make John feels as least amount of guilty as possible.

Either that, or Mycroft was trying to save his own ass when he knew John would find out what type of shape Sherlock was actually in.

It could go either way.

"The hell with it." John says acidly. "_Your_ brother needs me." John puts his hand back on the door handle and this time Mycroft doesn't move.

"John." Greg asks on the other side of the phone, trying not to ease drop on the tense conversation. John gets out of the car stiffly, his ribs screaming in protest but he continues anyway, determination blocking everything else out. He is immediately attacked by the demanding drizzle of rain.

"All right, I'm coming in." John says when he's half way down the street and then hangs up. He pockets the phone just as he hears the scuttle of Mycroft's Italian leather shoes.

Prat.

The connection is still open between John and his detective. The mantra of, _"John is dead"_ repeated over and over again. He thinks about sending calming thoughts but John hesitates. Sherlock might react even worse when confronted mentally. John just hopes that his physical presence can get Sherlock out of his panic.

The genius is uncharacteristically fragile and John feels an immense wave of guilt crash through him. He shoots a glare toward Mycroft for good measure as he reaches the front door. The rain makes the wood appear darker then normal, he notices as he pushes it open.

What on earth happened? Sherlock is always logical, always brilliant, always detached. The doctor expected him to be skeptical but this is so much more.

_"Johnisdead. Johnisdead."_

These are the ramblings of a broken man.

He confirms one thing as he hurries up the stairs of 221B Baker Street.

Mycroft was lying with he said that Sherlock was fine.

And John is responsible for breaking him.

* * *

><p>The former detective doesn't move, it feels like hours but he knows it could just as well be minutes passing.<p>

_"John is dead." _

His hearing is only tuned into his breathing, his very shallow breathing. His legs throb slightly but his back twinges with discomfort.

Still, Sherlock stays where he is. Rocking back and forth like the mental patient he is, shivering with grief.

He is hallucinating. It's the only explanation.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

These are phantom feelings and they happen all the time. This is nothing new. Sherlock can feel the poking at his mind and the detective shakes violently as the tears cascade down his face.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

A voice suddenly calls out to Sherlock but the former detective doesn't move. He's heard the voice so many times in his dreams and auditory hallucinations.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

"Sherlock, open the door." The hallucination calls softly and Sherlock closes his eyes. The genius watched his blogger, his lover die. John is dead. This isn't real. It can't be real.

"No." Sherlock whispers to himself while bringing his hands to his temples trying to block out his madness.

He is going mad. The younger man can feel it. Maybe he should make his brother lock him up, put him away to be a medicated zombie for the rest of his life. Anything would be better than this torture.

"No." Sherlock thinks to himself. He just needs drugs. They will help, they will definitely help.

Sherlock eyes his floorboard suddenly. Lestrade doesn't look under there and he knows it's still hidden. He has stayed away from it this long but he can't afford to anymore.

The genius's resolve is breaking.

A sudden rush of calm and warmth spread through the former detective and he realises that his barriers have gone down. He isn't use to putting them up and his distracting thoughts have weakened his hold.

"I'm imagining this." Sherlock whispers to himself repeatedly as the feeling of calm relaxes him.

Suddenly, his bedroom door bursts open showing a kneeling Lestrade eye level with the lock.

Sherlock grips himself tighter despite the calm and rocks with more violent movements.

"No." The detective shouts trying to scramble away from the door and failing. His eyes are squeezed shut and he loses purchase on his flooring and falls onto his back. Sherlock doesn't bother sitting up and instead, curls into himself while shaking with violent tremors.

"Mycroft." The hallucination hisses and Sherlock wishes for death. He can't take it anymore.

"This is your definition of fine?" The apparition continues, his voice scary and angry.

"Stop. Please." The genius whimpers. This isn't worth the torment, life isn't worth the constant tears and hallucinations.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

"This is not fine." The voice is exhausted and irate. No one answers the voice, but Sherlock can feels the vibrations of footsteps coming closer.

"Sherlock?" The taunting voice grips Sherlock and forces him into madness.

"No. No. No." The younger man cries but doesn't move. He is too tired and the familiar sensations of calm are tugging at his consciousness.

Another sudden wave of calm hits the detective and Sherlock goes suddenly limp. There are hands on him and the former detective doesn't move. He lets the rough hands maneuver Sherlock into a position that causes the younger man to whimper from familiarity.

His blogger used to like this pose. Sherlock's head is cradled into the apparition's lap and a hand is running through the genius's hair.

"Shush." The voice soothes and Sherlock realises that he is whimpering but he doesn't open his eyes. They remain squeezed shut against the obtrusive hallucination. Why can't he just be left alone?

What does it want?

"Sherlock. I'm here." Sherlock struggles against the grip but the calm is stilling him, trapping him.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

"Open your eyes, love." A hand cups the genius's cheek but Sherlock doesn't move, his eyelids remain shut. He can feel the calloused hand stroking his chin slightly but the former detective is frozen in dread, grief, disbelief.

"You aren't real." Sherlock whispers to the hallucination as the tears fall down his face. "You-Jo-He is dead."

"How are you going to prove it unless you open your eyes?" The voice challenges. Sherlock flinches slightly. Logic. Hallucinations aren't meant to be logical. They've never challenged him before, either.

A burst of calm enters his mind again and languidly caresses his entire body and with it, the courage to assess the situation. Feeling a long lost spark curiosity and willingness to solve a puzzle, Sherlock opens his eyes.

The most gorgeous sapphire hue stares down at him and the genius buckles under the gaze of the beautiful and familiar orbs, almost shutting his eyes against the _realness' _of the gaze.

But he doesn't, Sherlock meets the man's eyes with his emotions all over his face.

"John." Sherlock cries and all self-preservation falls out of the window. This is the most realistic hallucination the former detective has ever had and he is not one to waste materials.

He may be crazy and this may be his breaking point, but what better way to descend into madness.

Sherlock scrambles to find his footing on the floor and clambers into the hallucination that could be the real John's lap.

There are so many things wrong with encouraging this hallucination but for now all Sherlock can think about is how warm his imagination is and how he could never regret this, not ever.

The former detective huddles into John and grips at his jumper, taking deep breaths and inhaling John's scent.

Arms wrap tightly around Sherlock and the genius shudders. "You aren't real." He whimpers but his grasp grows tighter trying to anchor the hallucination to himself.

"I am." John responds as one of his hands runs a hand through the young man's hair.

"No. No." Sherlock whimpers and sobs. John shushes him and reassures him.

"You are not real." Sherlock shouts and his breathing picks up. "I watched John die. I watched you die." Sherlock is coming to his senses. He knows that John is dead. This is a vivid illusion. He can't afford to be in the comfort of a traumatic situation. He scrambles away but the ghost grips him tighter preventing the thin man from leaving.

Sherlock can't breath. His face is growing pale. He has to get away. He was wrong, Sherlock is going to regret this in the morning with the hallucination is gone and a hole is all that is left. His chest is tightening and his lungs are refusing to work properly.

"Sherlock." The illusion is worried. "You have to breath."

"I-Can't." Sherlock responds as he chokes on the lack of air flow. More waves of calm enter his mind and in that moment, Sherlock starts to realise his hallucinations never had this effect.

Sherlock's dreams were always of the two of them together. Solving cases or spending days in bed, never once did a dream involve John's telepathy. In fact, none of his daytime hallucinations ever used to telepathy. It's pure logic and it totally escaped Sherlock's mind.

"You're real." Sherlock says quietly as his calming brain instils his lungs to work again.

"I am." John repeats pushing his hand onto the detective's cheek. The connection is warm and instant and both of the men have missed it.

John digs for memories that are happy. He notices the dark thoughts that surround the genius's head and John resists the urge to cry. Right now, he has to focus on the happy. He digs deep and finds the one memory that they both love. The memory of their first kiss. It was awkward and John thought it was an experiment but it was perfect.

Sherlock smiles sleepily as the calming effect pulls him towards sleep.

"When was the last time you sleep?" The voice-no, not the voice, John-John asks.

"Thursday." Sherlock comments curling himself into the security of the man he thought was dead. Sherlock is angry at least he thinks he is. The calming effect is tampering with his emotions. He will be angry, once he wakes up.

"It is Thursday." John remarks with disbelief. "You haven't slept for a week? Up you go. It's time for bed."

John voice is soft and mellow and Sherlock melts into it. He feels the doctor start to shuffling away but Sherlock grips tighter. No, no don't go. He has lived three months without the doctor, he refuses to go another minute without him.

"We are just moving to the bed." John soothes grabbing the younger man. He pulls Sherlock to his feet and the tall man crashes himself into John's arms.

"You left me." Sherlock says quietly as John leads them both to the mattress. He guides the lanky man onto the bed and lays him down straight.

"I'm sorry." John states and can see the detective getting worked up again. He pushes more calm thoughts into the man hoping it will put him into a slumber.

Sherlock tenses underneath John's hands.

"Don't leave." Sherlock cries and pulls himself closer. "I'm sorry. I'm not mad, I promise. Don't leave."

John's eyes leak as he hears the pleading voice, telling him what he wants to hear. The doctor shakes his head with anguish.

"I'm not leaving ever again. I promise." The doctor says before sending the final wave of calm that finally pulls the detective into a slumber.


	2. Chapter 2: Lies That Talk

**So, I know there is some confusion, but its all sorted, here is Chapter 2.**

**For those who have read this story originally, I combined the previous Chapter 2&3 together for this chapter so it's a long one. **

**I hope you guys are still interested and thanks for sticking with me.**

**Peace&Love**

**Sophie**

* * *

><p>"Mycroft." John all but growls once he enters the sitting room. He left Sherlock side just to grab some tea and possibly yell at Mycroft before returning to Sherlock's side. Always and forever returning.<p>

He finds the politician in the sitting room, his hand clasped tightly around Lestrade, the two of them looking up at John as he enters the room.

"You lied." John whispers incredulously, his mouth a firm, thin line that conveys unhappiness.

"Would it have made any difference to tell the truth?" The politician's disinterested tone bites back. However, he posture is tense and hesitant. John realizes that Mycroft is slightly afraid of John.

Not of his abilities, no of what John will think of Mycroft.

That can't be write, this is Mycroft. Without any hesitation John opens up the connection to Mycroft and tries to sort out the fast paced thought process.

The politician winces noticeably and suddenly his thoughts are in German again. John signs in frustration before speaking.

"It would have made all the difference." John whispers with exasperation, his expression going a tad soft but his eyes remained hard.

Mycroft stands swiftly and looks at John, he sees the restrained hostility and resists the urge to shift nervously. He is not really afraid of John, even though the man could drop him like a sack of potatoes.

They remain in silence, Mycroft's knuckles white, his hands clutching his umbrella while John stands with his arms across his chest.

Lestrade is still seated on the couch, his eyes darting between the two with avid interest.

"This was killing him." John states as his arms flail a little bit with exasperation.

"He's fine, Doctor." Mycroft says stubbornly, remaining where he is.

John is irritated, tired, nervous, extremely guilty, and above all angry. In the past three months its been nothing but Sherlock's mental declarations across the continent and finding Moriarty. Now that John doesn't have to worry about the criminal mastermind and he can focus his detective and it turns out that Sherlock isn't even a detective anymore let alone the same man.

"He's broken Mycroft." John says crushed, his own emotions filtering through. He should remain angry with Mycroft. Anger with Mycroft, strong with Lestrade and guilt-ridden punishment always on the back burner of his mind with Sherlock.

"You can fix him, John I trust you." The politician states with a surely confidence that he know will goads the doctor. Lestrade shifts nervously at the tension in the room but its ignored by both parties.

"I shouldn't have to fix him!" John yells. There is the anger, being forced on this silly lie, breaking the only person he has every loved. "This was killing him. **We** were killing your brother."

John is so close to tears because of the truth of that statement. They were killing Sherlock. Their lie was destroying him. How is John supposed to live through that?

"Dramatics don't suit you, Doctor." Mycroft huffs, his eyes darting in an unusual show of nervousness. John guesses that last statement got to him too.

John is so passed all of the bullshit and theatrics that Mycroft has put on for the past three months that he feels like he is going to snap.

"Dramatics." John gapes in disbelief, mostly because Mycroft is calling him dramatic. Dramatics, huh?

He promised himself a long time ago, back when he made the rules and when he first tormented Mycroft that he wouldn't use negative emotions on people. However, sometimes rules were meant to be broken and especially if they are used on meddling seemingly uncaring older brothers.

Without a second thought, John finds Mycroft's chocolate and caramel senses and pushes himself into the politician's brain.

"John-" Mycroft starts but is interrupting by the searing pain and grief that is suddenly overtaking his entire body.

"No, this is dramatic." John says without infliction, his eyes cold and hard as he stares at the crumpling form of Mycroft. He isn't doing this for fun and is getting no pleasure out of it. In fact, the doctor is only conveying emotions that Sherlock has been feeling.

Grief. The most prominent emotion in Sherlock and the one that John had picked up on right away. The only feeling that has seemed to stick with the doctor even after the former detective had fallen asleep. Sherlock's dreams are laced with it.

The sadness and the despair that swiveled around in Sherlock's head tortured John. The colors that Sherlock dreams are gone and as the doctor laid there holding onto his detective, he only sensed pain and distress in Sherlock's mind. John had sat there crying before coming to get tea. He sends the same feelings to Mycroft and John allows himself to feel it too, because he caused it and it's all his fault. The politician is trying to hold in the displays of emotions but John can see the tears threatening to spill.

John delves into his own memories. He has far to many to sort through. Memories of countless sleepless nights being baraged by a desperate detective. The blogger brings up those memories willingly and pushes them through the connection. A distinct memory that John uses first is from the night before they went after Moriarty. John had awoken only after a half-hour of sleep and proceeded to be immobilized completely by such a deep wave of distress and grief that he blond man couldn't move for an hour. When he finally did move, he just curled up on his side and cried for the remainder of the night until he fell into a fitful sleep.

John decides to share this memory with Mycroft, he pushes it through and the elder Holmes is seconds away from screaming or sobbing. The feeling is so overwhelming and dominant that Mycroft falls to his knees in a grunt of pain.

John only feels pity, and a little bit of hatred towards the older man.

"Mycroft." Lestrade calls suddenly and John realises that the DI is still present, John looks up at Greg and sees the stricken look. His eyes are worried and pleading. The sheer emotion in the DI's voice breaks John out of his trance and he suddenly realizes the situation. The telepath removes himself from Mycroft and staggers back. His eyes are puffy and red when he notices that Mycroft is looking up at him. He realizes that Mycroft's look the same.

"What the hell?" Lestrade says with panic as he kneels down next to his boyfriend. "Are you okay?"

"Yes...Greg." Mycroft pants out, while still holding his gaze with John, neither can seem to look away. John feels a flash of fear but he isn't sure if its from Mycroft, Greg or himself.

"John. What the hell?" Greg says glaring at the doctor. "Just because you-"

"Get out." John says abruptly. He can't stand to look at the elder Holmes, at what he has done. _"Why is it that Mycroft always brings out the worst in me?"_ John asks himself as a bewildered Lestrade stares at him.

"John-" Mycroft tries to say but John can't, doesn't want to hear it.

"Leave." The doctor says turning his back and heading for the kitchen. His thoughts are screaming. He broke one of his rules and yes the man may have deserved but the fact remains. John lost his temper (again) and he can't deal with a broken Sherlock and an uncaring Holmes at the same time.

"Mycroft. I will regret this later but right now I'm too angry to care. You need to leave. Both of you. I have to fix this." John rambles off from the kitchen when he doesn't hear movement from the sitting room. He peeks his head out from the kitchen.

He sees the politician get to his feet shakily, gripping Lestrade for support. Tears are falling down his face, the after effects of the emotional exchange.

Greg hooks an arm around Mycroft's waist and ushers them to the door silently. They don't look at John or acknowledge their departure. John just walks to the window while the kettle is going.

There is a sudden intrusion in his mind and John, at first, resist it but it suddenly becomes strangely overbearing. It's like someone is clearing their throat in his mind, trying to get his attention.

_"You are under the assumption that I don't care, John."_ Mycroft's voice whispers with an unusual resignation through the connection. And because he is alone, John huffs.

_"That is not the case. It never has been."_ The politician adds, _"Moriarty would've continued to go after my brother. I did the only thing I could think of to protect him further down the road."_

John hears the front door shut and he sees the two men walk into the sedan that had pulled up. _"Think about that Doctor."_

Then the sounds are gone and John is left in the silence of the flat.

The doctor turns with a shaky sigh as the kettle finishes. He makes his tea and heads back towards the bedroom. He has to fix the broken man that they, no, that he left.

Even though John lashed out at Mycroft the truth is, it's all the doctor's fault. John knows this and he can't get around it. He should have said no to the politician or at least fought harder. They could have brought the genius along. Anything, anything would have been better than this. Sherlock is now a shell of the person he used to be, he pleads and begs.

He was never meant to be this way.

* * *

><p>Sherlock bolts awake, the sheets twisted around his frame. His eyes shoot open with such a panicked ease that the former detective has to remind himself to breathe and remember why he is in such a state. His, not their, bedroom wall stares back at him.<p>

He is lying on his bed covered in sweat and crumpled sheets, alone, while a sob crawls up his throat.

_"Terrifying dream then,"_ The genius thinks despairingly to himself before sitting up painfully. His muscles are stiff but his head is clear.

_How long had he been sleeping?_

He resists the urge to just lie back down and curl into a ball. For one thing, his clothes lay uncomfortably against his skin. He stands up with shaky legs and strips his clothing before putting on fresh ones. The jumper he had been wearing, a navy blue one of John's that still had his smell, is ruined now by his feverish dreams. He strolls to the cabinet and picks out another jumper that has a strong smell left. Sherlock puts it to his nose and inhales before pulling it over his head and smoothing it down over his chest and lithe frame. He turns around to stare at the empty and lonely room and stops suddenly.

_How did he get to the bedroom?_

Sherlock searches his mind for memories but nothing eventful comes up. He remembers being perched on the sitting room for the past three days, or he thinks it was only three days, with unmoving intentions and then Lestrade came over and -

_"John."_

_"John."_

_"John."_

Sherlock's head snaps up with force and he bolts out of the bedroom. He runs into the sitting room, skidding to a stop to look for any evidence that what his remembers is a reality.

The area is just as empty and messy as it always has been. His eyes scan the space regardless, looking for irregulatrities or evidence of another human being. He looks but finds nothing, nothing other than Mrs. Hudson's usual dusting. Sherlock walks further into the room, tears already spring to his eyes. He stands in the middle of the room, his arms around his chest, hugging himself silently.

He lets the grief course through him.

Sherlock tries really hard to resist the urge to scream, cry, murder.

He somewhat notices the sudden sound of the steps but he doesn't fully register who they belong to. The former detective just stands there, completely numb.

He is just reafirrming to himself that he is going mad when warm limbs wrap around his torso from behind. He immediately recongizes that embrace, he would never forget the feel of those strong arms. He knows who is responsible for this comforting gesture.

He would have turned hesitantly, but his mind had other ideas. His body whips around fast while still maintaining the embrace.

"John." Sherlock gasps out as he comes face to face with his hopes and dreams. He pushes himself into the broad chest and lowers his head, as if he couldn't possibly keep if up anymore, onto John's shoulder. He nuzzles his way in between John shoulder and neck. He's hands find there way up, sliding up John's chest until they reach his neck and his cheek respectively. His right hand tugs at the slight curls at the bottom of John's neck while Sherlock sobs, his tears causing wet streaks all over John's clothes and upper body.

"I thought you weren't real. I thought I made the whole thing up. I woke up and you weren't there." Sherlock rambles with a cry. John's arms squeeze tight and one of his hands rub Sherlock's thin back. He holds on while he murmurs soothing words into Sherlock's ear.

"I thought you were dead. John. I thought-" Sherlock chokes as his breath hitches. Tears continue to fall.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I would've been here, I wanted to be here, but Mrs. Hudson came up and saw me. I had to help her back downstairs." John says holding the younger man, his own tears falling.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." John repeats with guilt. He is surprised to be holding the man so close to his heart.

"You are really here." Sherlock says with relief. In that moment, Sherlock realises the most important factor. John Watson is wholeheartedly, positively, without a doubt alive. Even through the pain and the agony Sherlock can see the man's features. He would never be able to hallucinate such detail.

_"This isn't a hallucination."_

John shakes his head and sends a rush of unhappiness and determination. _"No. I'm really here."_

"Oh god, Sherlock. I missed you so much." John sniffs pushing his face into Sherlock. "I'm so sorry. God. I'm sorry." The doctor repeats over and over.

"I didn't know. I didn't realise-" John starts but Sherlock's lips on his own interrupt him.

The kiss is hesitant as if Sherlock is afraid to shatter an illusion and John's heart breaks at the thought.

He pushes back for a bit of air before mashing their lips together in a frenzy of maddening longing and need.

They kiss for a long time, eventually having to relocate to the settee for both of their legs buckle multiple times with relief and happiness.

Finally, John pulls away and just stares into the liquid smoke that has taunted his dreams for the past months. They lay on the couch, John tucked behind the former detective with his back against the cushions. One of his hands is resting comfortably on Sherlock's hip and the genius's fingers are intertwined, holding the doctor tight.

_"You are really here."_ Sherlock pushes through the tactile connection and a brief flash of fear and panic run across John's mind. It is gone before the doctor can find out what dark part of Sherlock's mind the thought came from.

"Yes," John chokes out with a shy grimace.

Sherlock looks back with an equally shy and hesitant frown.

Rage suddenly courses through. His own temper yelling at him and telling him that its his fault, his and Mycroft. They should not have lied. They should have not broken the strong willed genius.

Sherlock is never shy about anything in his life.

It is all John's fault.

The last three months were completely unnecessary in comparison.

"I'm sorry." John blurts out and presses his face into Sherlock's shoulder, inhaling the detective's scent. "I didn't want to...Mycroft said...I'm sorry." John mumbles incoherently and Sherlock goes tense under his grip.

Before John realises what is going on the former detective is up and walking away from the doctor's grip. The doctor sits up with sudden movements and regrets it instantly. His still healing ribs protest with the move. Funny, he didn't realize the pain when the got on to the sofa.

Once the pain dies down, John watches with rejection and hurt as the man walks away from him and toward the kitchen. It's then that John notices Sherlock's attire. An navy blue colored jumper hangs off his thin frame and John grimaces sadly, out of affection and guilt. They both course through him without warning and the doctor hangs his head to hide his tears, letting his protesting ribs be his punishment.

He deserves this rejection. He should just take his punishment.

Minutes pass and John wallows in self-misery all the while wondering what Sherlock is doing in there. He hears angry clattering and the occasional dish moving about with aborted movements. He thinks about getting up, going to Sherlock but John can't seem to move. Partly his guilt, and partly his ribs.

Eventually, John can't resist the curiosity anymore, despite the aching in his torso.

"Sherlock?" John ask timidly and stands up carefully, yet shakily while running a hand through his growing hair. Without hesitation, the doctor opens the connection but gets nothing when he realises that Sherlock has put up his mental barriers. The doctor under normal circumstances would have huffed in annoyance but these were not normal circumstances. These were extreme circumstances where Sherlock is not the same man.

He has been broken by grief.

Add mental shields up at home to the list of punishments to get use to.

John follows the consulting detective into the kitchen where Sherlock clambers about making tea and the soldier watches in amazement.

Since when did Sherlock make tea on his own?

"I don't need your pity, John." Sherlock spits out suddenly and taking the doctor by surprise. The former detective is bitter and his movements are jerky and angry.

What changed? They were snogging only a minute ago.

John doesn't move and he is truthfully to stunned to think about it, instead, he watches as Sherlock continues through the motions.

_"Well, what did you think, Watson. That it would be all butterflies and roses."_ He scolds himself.

When John thinks about it, it is not all that surprising. Sherlock is angry and he has every right to be. John 'died' and it screwed with the genius's emotions. Feelings that the former detective didn't like to acknowledge anyway.

Its what he is being punished for, isn't it?

"Sherlock-" John begins before being cut off but a mug shattering with harsh noises against the counter. Bits of ceramic fly everywhere and John flinches despite his army training. Oh bad move. Maybe he should wrap his ribs again.

He looks at the younger man and sees the hunched, trembling shoulders as Sherlock grips the counter with white knuckles.

"You left me, John." Sherlock baritone is quiet and vulnerable, a direct correlation to his shaking form. The doctor is at a loss.

What does he do? He wants to go to the man and hug him and tell that he missed him. So he doesn't restrain himself. John moves towards the detective with calculated steps.

Before John can get close, Sherlock whips his head around and stares with vehemence.

_"Don't."_

John stops when he hears the harsh tone in his head.

"I'm so-" John starts again but Sherlock throws his hands up and scurries past John's advancing form.

"Stop." Sherlock yells out as he walks into the living room. John, naturally, follows.

The detective is moving about the sitting room with extreme paces. He moves around the furniture and the piles of papers, not once coming close enough to the doctor.

John watches in horror and exasperation. The former detective is working through so many emotions and John's presence isn't helping. For a split second, John thinks about leaving.

He pushes that thought away with so much anger and shame that he wants to slap himself for thinking it originally.

This is his penance.

_"You left me."_

_"He left me."_

_"He left me."_

_"He promised he wouldn't leave me"_

John can hear the thoughts escape Sherlock's troubled mind and the doctor stares in guilt. The green-eyed monster is twisting his insides so violently, John is afraid he is going to spontaneously combust.

_"He left me." _

"I didn't have a choice!" John exclaims softly, trying desperately to get near the genius but Sherlock keeps moving around the flat in an attempt to not be within John's clutches. The doctor is naturally hurt by the actions but he understands them. Sherlock is at a loss just like John.

Sherlock moves away from the doctor again circling around the fireplace. The doctor moves away, his ribs protesting and his knife wound twinging slightly. He walks slowly over to the couch in an effort dull the pain. He sits slowly, lowering himself gently, all the while unaware of eyes following his every move.

His ribs protest and the doctor winces as he finally lands amongst the cushions. The knife wound in his side aches uncomfortable but John can tell the stitches are in tact still. He'll have to look later. As for his cracked ribs, he can't wait for those to heal completely, utter nuisance those are. His injuries are becoming known more and more steadily since John's adrenaline from the past twenty-four hours is wearing off. He subconsciously puts a hand across his side through a grunt of pain. He knows immediately his mistake. He should have stayed standing.

Sherlock freezes by the mantle, he had been watching John but the last movement snapped a few pieces together. Sherlock's deduction stills the caged lion thriving inside himself, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Funny the first deduction that Sherlock makes in three months is about John.

John winces through the pain, knowing full well he had not been quiet. He doesn't meet Sherlock's eyes and mostly because his own eyes are squeeze shut. He should of got some pain pills when he was up.

_"You are hurt."_ The former detective's thought is quiet and hesitant but when John looks up Sherlock's face is still angry and a little bit smug.

John smiles weakly before sending a wave of happiness and then contentment. _"Yes, but I'm fine now."_

_"John." _Sherlock's facial features go blank and he plops down into his chair a little ways away from John. The doctor looks at the man in front of him. His weight is alarming low and his face seems hollow.

This is all his fault.

"I'm so sorry. This is all my fault." John cries leaning forward gently to put his head in his hands and ignoring the slight pain that is shooting through his body.

_"What happened?"_

_"Why?"_

Why? Why indeed.

John sends a wave of fear and irritation through the link. It teases on the outskirts of Sherlock's mental barriers but the genius feels it.

_"Moriarty."_

John nods his head glumly and sends another wave of shame, guilt and regret. _"I'm sorry."_

_"Where have you been?"_

John looks up and sees Sherlock's face. It's suddenly devoid of emotion and instead a blankness stares back at the doctor. Sherlock radiates cold logic and the older man shivers with sadness.

A very distant though in the back of John's mind register Sherlock behavior, his _usual_ behaviour that he seems to be exhibiting right now. There may be hope.

"I had to leave." John starts, repeating the words Mycroft had told him. "There would have never been another opportunity to take him down."

Sherlock nods solemnly but doesn't say anything.

"I got him." John says awkwardly after a few minutes of silence. Sherlock cast a scan over John's body before meeting the doctor's eyes.

_"Tell me."_

"Sherlock-" John says hesitatingly. The genius doesn't really need the details.

"John. You died. You owe me the location of where you have been for the past three months." Sherlock says angrily and John flinches.

John reluctantly sends a wave of happiness and resignation. _"Yes, okay."_

* * *

><p>Minutes of silence echo throughout the sitting room. Sherlock sitting in his chair watching the blonde man's unseeing gaze. The former detective waits patiently, his legs crossed and his shoulders tense with pain and anger.<p>

The doctor leans back into the cushions, wincing a little bit but other wise barely registers the pain. His mind is going through the last three months. The constant moving and safe house, some away from civilization, others in the heart of populations that would make his brain hurt with endless white noise.

His mind whirs very quickly, from Switzerland to Italy, from the first day in the hospital being told by Mycroft to play dead, to actual being a part of Moriarty's death.

All of the thoughts and memories course through, John is just struggling for a place to start.

"I wanted to tell you." John says quietly, resigning in the fact that he has to tell this story and he might as well start at the beginning. He does not looking in the genius's direction as he continues. "I really did."

The former detective huffs, a very quiet noise, but doesn't say anything. Not that the doctor blames Sherlock, all the lies and betrayal would make anyone skeptical.

Regardless, John is grateful he doesn't interrupt. Maybe he can't get this all done in one long monologue.

"I couldn't." John whispers, admitting his shame. "We had to make you think it was real. You are the only one who could convince Moriarty." John admits sheepishly as he wrings his hands together.

_"Obviously."_ Sherlock's thought is bitter but there is a hint of his 'your-an-idiot" tone that he would use affectionately before three months ago.

Even though he deserves it, John flinches internally at the hostile voice.

_"God."_ John exclaims internally. _"**When** did this get so messed up?"_ The doctor runs a hand over his weary face, exhaling silently.

_"When you left."_ The baritone says in John's mind and this time the doctor flinches physically, like a slap.

He is going to grow old sighing the way he is today.

In that moment, John has a sudden urge to find Sherlock's eyes. To see the stormy gray that always enraptured the blonde man, acted as a compass for his emotions. Or at least, they use to, now John doesn't know what is going to happen and honestly that thought scares him.

He is fully aware that Sherlock could throw him out, although considering he hasn't yet, John is rather hopeful. However, if anything, the detective, former detective, is maniac by trade.

John's own shame prevents him from finding those eyes, his compass. Guilt, longing, and self-loathing runs throughout John's body. His mind screaming at him, telling him how much of a coward he is being. The soldier part of John is telling him to man up.

With a resigned thought, John looks up in the genius's examining gaze. He shifts uncomfortably under the liquid smoke but doesn't dare allow himself to get comfortable. He deserves everything that Sherlock throws his way.

Everything.

Sherlock's hands are resting in his lap, his face blank but his eye searching with hard scrutiny, silently waiting for John to continue.

The doctor sighs and opens his mouth again.

"It started back at the warehouse." John begins, taking a millisecond to remember the blood and the pain. The seemingly endless torture that Moriarty's touch caused. John shivers. "Moriarty wasn't what we thought." John says, trying to not get lost in the memories. Trying to tell himself that we will never feel like that again. He will never have blood stain his mental connections. Moriarty is dead.

He's dead.

"We thought he was like me but weaker." John intertwines his fingers in his discomfort, willing the flashes of memory to go away.

"We were wrong. So very wrong." John struggles to say. He can still feel the fingertips of the criminal mastermind on his forehead and John subconsciously wipes a hand across his brow in an attempt to get rid of the phantom sensation.

"When he had me, in that warehouse, he showed me things." John pauses for a moment, trying to swallow the hardened lump in his throat. He feels like blood could bubble up and swallow him whole. He closes his eyes briefly and counts to ten. With each breath, his mini-panic attack fades exponentially and the sitting room's familiarity surround the doctor.

He breaths through the remembered altered memories that Moriarty would force on him. John can recall them all, in vivid detail, mostly because he dreams about them every night, well on the nights that he is able to sleep. The pictures of Sherlock drowning in his own blood, bubbling up and staining the carpet. He can recall the bullet wound in Sherlock's forehead, the little droplet of blood sliding down the pale face.

John leans forward slightly, aware of his injuries and hangs his head. He forces himself to breath slower, trying to control his reactions. He knows he can't stop them. They continue to come, they always continue to come.

_"I saw them."_ The thought is quiet and it startles John a little, enough to push the memories aside for now.

His head slowly rises in question. He stares at the man sitting across from him. It's Sherlock's turn to be lost in memories. The former detective's eyes are in an unseeing gaze. There are parts of John's brain that are automatic, leaving his mind to be slow in processing. He doesn't think, he just stands and crosses the sitting room before kneeling at Sherlock's side. His hand find the pale thin fingers that fit so perfectly within his own grip.

John feels a hardening grip in return and silently revels in the lack of rejection before being overpowered by his gift.

The heat and power of the tactile connection hits John with force that leaves the doctor reeling. They did this on the couch when they were snogging but this link seems much more powerful and deep.

The doctor doesn't have to wait long until Sherlock's memories are floating through the bond, uncaring of mental shields at this point.

Between the onslaught of senses and memories John feels an overwhelming feeling of relief and longing. A feeling that is mirrored in John's own subconscious. It doesn't take a telepath to know that Sherlock missed the warmth and the familiarity of sharing a mind with someone.

John missed it too.

Three seconds later, the feelings of relief are being pushed back and John is assaulted with memories from Sherlock's brain. He is forced to close his eyes against the fragments that float across his mind. Images and the smell of blood are echoed within Sherlock's mind as well and a crushing feeling of remorse reverberates within John. Flashes of Sherlock's immeasurable pain along with Mycroft's worried expression mix with the flashes of pictures going through the connection.

John is horrified.

John yanks his hand out of Sherlock's grip, gasping with fright. He moves away, his fear and regret propelling him away. He turns his back on the former detective. His instincts frayed and telling him all sorts of things. That he should run, that he is dangerous. His mind is a danger. He should run.

_"John."_

He clamps down most of those thoughts as suddenly as they come. He won't run. He can't run. John turns around, looking at Sherlock, his face twisting in so many emotions.

He sends shame and guilt across the mental link repeatedly. _"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."_

_"John."_

Liquid smoke meet his blue orbs but John doesn't continue to look. He turns and settles back on the sofa.

_"John."_

The doctor looks up in despair, afraid of what he will see when he looks into those eyes. He watches as Sherlock begins to open his mouth and John suddenly doesn't want to hear what the genius will say, his fear propelling his mouth to move.

"How did you see them?" John asks in a rush, his eyes darting and his face twisted in remorse.

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, before closing it again. He repeats this motion, looking like a fish, before sighing. "I don't know." He starts quietly and John tenses.

"That.." Sherlock starts and John can tell he is struggling, "..day, I was connected with you. Unintentionally I think. I saw...I felt most of it." Sherlock finishes hesitantly, the first sign of an emotion that wasn't pain, grief or anger.

Almost as if Sherlock is trying to protect John against his own nightmares.

That doesn't stop John from feeling even guiltier for his own lack of control that day. The doctor is frozen where he sits, the torture and feelings from that fateful day pulse in the forefront of his brain briefly as if to reenforce their existence.

It's one thing that John had to live through it and now he finds out that Sherlock lived through it too, was forced to live through it because he couldn't such the connection down.

It's almost too much to bear, the guilt at forcing his pain on Sherlock, the shame at being weak and not able to stand up to Moriarty.

The fear that his gift is becoming a danger.

Their range, even all the way in India, is immeasurable it seems and now John is able to project into Sherlock's brain. The future is looking dimmer and dimmer for the doctor and he feel helpless against it.

_"John."_

How did this become so difficult? His gift used to be easy and now he is able to push thoughts onto other people. How? Why?

_"John."_

How was Sherlock able to see things that John saw? How did they not know before? Is it only under extreme emotions like pain and suffering?

_"John."_

What if he gets worse? What if he starts projecting his gift into others? What if he is getting weaker against his moral standings?

_"John."_

"What?" John sighs dejectedly, snapping to attention. He feels like he is going to suffocate underneath all the guilt, shameful of the knowledge that Sherlock has had to deal with this continuous pain despite John trying to protect him all those months ago.

He lifts his head lethargically to look at Sherlock.

_"Continue?"_ Sherlock probes, his face so undeservingly soft that John feels another twinge of remorse.

John clears his throat and continues to talk, this time with resignation and slight defeat in his tone. The emotions and feelings weighing down his will power.

"I fought with Moriarty a bit, able to get free from the chair despite, the ah, pain. It's kind of hazy but I rushed Moriarty and Moran shot me, I think." John states, fiddling with his hands while staring into the distance behind Sherlock.

He feels the mental connection fade a little bit, growing stiff with exhaustion, anger, and hurt. Sherlock is reliving his memories just as much as John is.

Still, all the while trying to protect John's feelings. John latches on to the fading connection with desperation, not wanting it to leave and looking for reassurance as his own memories threaten to swallow him.

John hurriedly resumes before Sherlock closes off altogether.

"The next thing I know," John gulps, "I'm in a hospital and Mycroft's standing over me saying that I'm dead. I'm dead and you can never know."

That memory, being told to lie to Sherlock, makes his heart ache and John resist the tears that threaten to fall.

Sherlock stiffens but John continues, fighting through his own emotions.

"I was angry." John says, wincing as a little bit of his temper comes out of his voice. "So angry. Angry at Moriarty, at falling to his whims, falling into his trap. Letting him torture me." John says the last bit quietly before moving on hurriedly, hoping to push the thoughts of torture away before they hinder his momentum. "I was angry that Mycroft intervened, like he always does. I was angry that we were lying to everyone. To Mrs. Hudson, to Harry, to _you_."

"And he told me I couldn't mentally contact you and it was so bloody hard." John's voice breaks at the last admission. Countless, sleepless nights flash through his mind. His own despair and loneliness and guilt keeping him awake, away from the nightmares. Waiting for Sherlock to call for him even though the former detective's voice would be equally as sad and distressed.

"I thought about it." John says out loud not really to Sherlock in particular. "All the time, I thought.." John swallows another lump in his throat.

He limbs shake with disjointed passion as the doctor continues. "He manipulated me, Sherlock." John states matter of fact. Not that he is necessarily putting all the blame on the elder Holmes but Mycroft does deserve a fair share.

He senses a tiny ripple through the connection causing John to look over at the younger man. Rage is vibrating through the connection and John winces at the force of it.

_"Mycroft did this!_" The thought screams inside John's head and the doctor shakes slightly from the immediate pain. A sharp throb pokes at his brain and the doctor lifts a hand to his head, rubbing faintly.

"I'm sorry." John says quietly when the genius bolts upright and starts pacing around the room with forceful steps. Each footfall grounded into the carpet with rage and betrayal.

They don't talk for several minutes, Sherlock's mad pacing, rage and other emotions flowing through the connection at rapid fire speed sending John's brain into a frenzy. Meanwhile, John is trying to dispel the inevitable headache brewing in his head. He isn't very successful, guilt and shame are pelting at his conscience, derailing any sort of relief.

A few more minutes pass of more pacing and soothing mind hurts, John doesn't notice when Sherlock stops pacing and comes to sit on the coffee table right in front of John, who's head is resting against the back of the cushion, his face towards the ceiling.

John senses the other body but doesn't move right away. This is the closest they've been since they started the conversation.

John opens one eye slightly and looks towards the brunette. A fleeting expression flashes briefly on the gaunt face and John opens his other eye to look at Sherlock fully. However, by the time John has moved his head down slightly, the expression is gone and the doctor can't place it.

The mental link hums but it offers no solutions either.

"I couldn't-" John tries to say but Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him.

John opens his mouth again, he has to explain, he wants, no needs, Sherlock to understand, but before he can say anything Sherlock speaks a tight command.

"Continue."

John doesn't want to continue, he wants to just hold Sherlock, a feat that he has been deprived of for the past months.

But, he promised, and Sherlock does have a right to know.

So, John continues the retelling of his life these past months.

"Mycroft sent me to Switzerland first. He walked into my hospital room in London and declared I was being moved and within the hour I was on a plane." John states, looking at his hands resting in his lap. "I barely remember it other than the cold." John recalls the nights where he would shiver in loss and cold, listening to Sherlock's thoughts even though they tore at him. "

I was moved to a safe house in the Alps, miles and miles away from civilization. There was no one around, the only company I had was snow. Mycroft had intel that Moriarty was hiding there but, it turns out, Moriarty had already left by the time I had gotten there." John rambles, looking up.

He had forgotten that Sherlock had moved. Now the genius is less than a foot away. His proximity sends a bout of anxiety through John causing the doctor to lean back against the cushions trying to create space. His shame preventing him from just reaching out and touching the younger Holmes.

"We didn't leave the country right away." John continues, "I had developed a fever from the gunshot wound and the Swish doctors refused to let them move me." John says with a certain vulnerability.

He shudders at the memories of that clinical hospital with barely friendly staff and not one English speaking person, including his bodyguard.

"I don't remember any of it." John lies confidently.

He remembers it all. He remembers overhearing the angry phone calls from Mycroft, the politician's smooth voice hardened with anger. He remembers the bodyguard that was situated outside his door. He shudders at the memories of that clinical hospital with unfriendly staff and not one English speaking person among them, including his bodyguard. John remembers. The burning of his skin and the constant hallucinations and nightmares. The hospital had to put John in his own ward because of the screaming and the writhing. He remembers yelling and calling for Sherlock every minute.

It didn't help that the former detective would answer back sometimes and John would fret that he gave away the entire lie.

But, Sherlock can't know any of that. He can't know about the horrendous time in the hospital and the great relief John felt when he was finally able to be moved to another safe house after a week.

There doesn't need to be anymore emotional stress forced on the younger man.

John winces at the memories but blocks any feelings from traveling over the connection. Sherlock doesn't need to know.

John just figures it's another thing to blame Mycroft for. If he wasn't rushed out of London, he would have less chance of infection. Not to mention being left on his own in the middle of snowy mountains. He is lucky that the man who came to take him to another safe house arrived on the day he did, otherwise John would have most likely died on the floor of the kitchen like the weakling he was.

John shudders a sigh and lifts his eyes up to meet Sherlock.

The former detective's eyes are narrowed and examining. John tries to make himself smaller, debating whether to send calming thoughts through the link.

But before he can commit to the thought, Sherlock interrupts him.

_"You could hear me."_

John looks up, gaping, wondering with sadden eyes how the man figured that one out.

Before he can confirm or more likely deny, Sherlock had deduced his answer.

"All the time?" Sherlock asks out loud with such a quiet softness that John does a double take, looking at his blank expression.

"All the time." John replies, not even bothering to hide anymore. He lowers his head slightly in submission.

Sherlock's eyes are alight and John resists the urge to smile affectionately. The look is so much like before John left, before John died.

_"I felt you. I thought I was hallucinating."_

The thought startles John into gazing at Sherlock. The doctor sighs despondently.

Despite all those efforts, despite forcing himself not to respond, never to respond, he did anyway. He had opened the connection, regardless of his efforts, and unknowingly pushed emotions of his own grief and despair at his lover.

This thought crushes John more than anything else.

"How many times?" John forces himself to ask, out of curiosity and out of the need for self-flagellation. Part of him doesn't want to know about his failure.

_"I didn't keep count."_ Sherlock's thoughts are soft and hesitant.

Part of John senses that the genius is lying, but doesn't say anything.

"And you still thought I was...gone." John asks against his better judgement, wincing slightly.

_"I saw your body. I didn't have evidence to suggest otherwise."_

The thought is dripping with acid but despite that, John is warmed by the Sherlockian aspect of the sentence.

John leans forward slightly as the two just stare at each other for minutes. An unspoken occurrence happens between them, a new sort of understanding, maybe.

Emotions pass through the connection, some Sherlock's feelings and some belonging to John. Neither of them move or flinch away, but both can feel the invisible rope of guilt, longing, hurt and grief dancing between them.

After several long minutes, Sherlock clears his throat, purposely or out of nervousness the doctor doesn't know but it moves John into resuming his monologue.

"Once I was better, I was bounced around from place to place." John says, remembering the cities and countries that he visited. "I never stayed in the same place more than two days. I went to France, Germany, Russia, and even India. Eventually, ended up in the outskirts of Rome. There was intelligence that suggested Moriarty was there." John finishes, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's liquid smoke.

"I was alone and had contact with one person who would pick me up and bring me to the airport." John says wistfully. "I suppose Mycroft isolated me so that his secret weapon surprise didn't get ruined. It was lonely. I didn't have human contact for months."

"You were the only thing that kept me company." John admits before he can stop himself and freezes. How unfair of him that he could have Sherlock for company but the genius couldn't have John. He honestly didn't mean to divulge the information but he is glad to get it off his chest because when he looks at Sherlock again, the younger man isn't angry but rather pensive. John is about to hurry into the next part of the story but Sherlock's thought stops him. .

_"You could hear me in Rome?"_

The thought holds a level of surprise and John nods slowly.

"Yes. You were bloody annoying even in Rome." John says lightly and instantly regrets it. He remembers what Sherlock had pushed through the connection in Rome and there isn't anything worth joking about. He glances up nervously and relaxes at the site of a small smirk tugging at the genius's lips.

"Two days ago, we finally found him." John continues before he gets sucked into Sherlock's questions. He is almost done with the story.

"In some bloody warehouse that would even put Mycroft's favorite locations to shame." John states, smirking slightly at the jibe.

He stops for a second and recalls the moments leading up to entering the warehouse. The moment John had entered the vicinity of Moriarty's location, the smell of blood had hit him with full force. He remembers stopping mid step as Moriarty's senses devoured the soldier, almost overwhelmingly.

John shudders at the memory but goes on.

"God, Sherlock." John runs a hand through his hair. "You would think that after the warehouse I would be use to his smell. I wasn't. The blood, oh my god, the blood. It almost consumed me again. It was so much stronger. I smelled him right away and that's how I knew that we were in the right place." John rambles with a horrified tone.

John tells Sherlock about how he remembers telling Mycroft through gritted teeth and the politician having the nerve to ask him 'if he was sure."

The doctor tells the younger Holmes about how he wanted to punch his brother so bad in that moment.

He told Sherlock about parking the car far enough away from the warehouse so Moriarty wouldn't know they were coming. It was there that they filled John in on the plan.

Unsurprisingly, it was the first time John had been told anything in the past three months.

Mycroft briefed him because the Super Secret Special Ops team of Mycroft's don't know about anything related to John's powers, gifts, whatever.

He was informed that Moriarty could read the minds of people and would know who was entering the facility. The team would be useless unless the criminal mastermind was otherwise distracted.

In that moment, John remembers the realization of why he was there.

_"You had to go in alone."_

John, out of surprises in the last 24 hours, actually expects the anger in Sherlock's thought.

"I did." John deadpans as he stands up to pace. Sherlock who had been steadily leaning forward towards the story unfolding is forced to lean back as John brushes past him, the doctor's form curling with agitation.

John paces restlessly, nervous and emotionally exhausted. He winces as his side hurts and his ribs protest as he opens his mouth to talk.

_"He hurt you."_

John closes his mouth and resists the urge to shrug Sherlock off, play it down. Tell him that it isn't a big deal but John is a horrible liar, John knows that and Sherlock definitely has the proof for it.

"Yeah. He did." John admits defeated, he stops pacing and turns towards Sherlock, his own face mixed with pain and shame.

He expected Sherlock's expression to be blank or at the very least posed for deductions, his fingers steepled under his chin with bright eyes. No, John has to stifle his gasp of surprise when he sees the raw emotion on Sherlock's face. All pretense gone, the expression is not that different from those of last night, when the former detective thought he was in the midst of a very vivid hallucination.

"It wasn't hard." John rambles with a hurried speech. "Going in alone, that is."

"I was lucky." John scrambles for words, "There was no one around and I was able to get in and around the complex without much difficultly. Whoever I met along the way decided to have a quick nap and let me pass." John smirks devilishly at the memories of infiltrated the criminal's lair.

John returns to pacing and gets lost in his memories. "I, alone held the only advantage. Moriarty can't read my thoughts and I could find him by the smell of blood. It made perfect sense and I did find him easily."

John takes a deep breath and continues. "I walked into a room and found him sitting at a desk. It all look very normal." Disturbingly so.

"In a way, Mycroft had been right. Moriarty didn't see me coming." John states before starting the last part of his story.

The end.

* * *

><p><em>John walks slowly into a big room. Windows line one wall, floor to ceiling with deep purple curtains that flow haphazardly. There are expensive wood carvings and furniture that litter the room pretentiously and John stifles a scowl. The Irishman sits at a desk, unaware or unthreatened. Papers, with words and numbers scribbled on them are scattered around him on the ornate desk. It all looks suspiciously like paperwork.<em>

_Even consulting criminals can't get away from paperwork. _

_Bummer. _

_The thought of such a normal action actually terrifies John, and in that split second of surprise, the second where John is stunned by the normalcy, is the same second that John loses his only real chance._

_His element of surprise._

_If he hadn't hesitated and shot the Dublin man upon first sight, Moriarty wouldn't have seen him and wouldn't have distracted him._

_Moriarty had looked up at him in that second and showed a genuine look of shock at the sight of John before smiling wolfishly. The doctor remembers secretly applauded Mycroft's hiding skills._

_"Well. I must say, I am surprised." The accented man exclaims happily. He set down his pen on the desk before putting his palms on the desk and using the force to stand himself up. The movement smooth and all the more terrifying. John ignores the blood through the connection, trying to dampen it as he saunters out of his shadowed hiding spot with his gun, steady in his hands, aimed directly at Moriarty's head. _

_John doesn't respond or move as Moriarty stalks around the desk gracefully. _

_The ex soldier sees Moriarty's eye twitch minutely before he feels it._

_There really is no warning, only a very intense pain in his side. He feels the slide of the knife leave his body and he is forced to the ground, landing hard on his knees in pain. __One of his hands lets go of the gun and flies to his side out of instinct._

_"You are getting sloppy, soldier." A voice, thick with brawn and menace, that John doesn't immediately recognise causes the doctor flinch away. His gun lays, hanging limply from his hand, his fingertips barely gripping the handle. John flexes his hand faintly while he forces his head to look at his attacker in sheer defiance. _

_A blonde man, one who he instantly recognizes as Moran, stares down at him blandly, almost looking bored. John is just about to retort when Moran's fluttering hands distract him. John's eyes move to his attacker's thigh where hands are moving swiftly. It takes an embarrassingly long minute, due to his pain and general exhaustion, to realize that Moran is wiping his blade clean of blood. _

_John shivers and looks away. _

_Moriarty, during the time that John was distracted once again, has moved closer to the army doctor. The proximity makes John want to back up, especially as the blood floats torturously through the connection._

_It was at this moment that John started cursing Mycroft and all of his future children._

_"Oh, Johnny Boy." Moriarty coos as he crouches in front of John. The doctor eyes him warily, blood seeping out of his side painfully. Moriarty moves to place a hand against John's cheek but the doctor flinches back violently, just out of reach._

_Moriarty's eyes are bright with amusement and the mastermind stands up and beckons Moran to stand at his side. _

_John's gaze is cautious and curious. He winces as he pushes pressure against his side. He should be alaramed by the amount of blood he is losing but he can't focus. Blood leaking out of him, blood in the connection, enrapturing his senses to betray him._

_With as much effort as he can manage, John pushes. He pushes his hand against his side and he pushes the blood and the pain away. _

_He has got more important things to worry about. Moriarty looks down at him once again and John pretends to slump forward a bit, faking defeat. _

_He even tries to force the connection open without finesse. He is going for distraction. _

_The blood is almost overwhelming once he opens the floodgates but his pushes through it with strength and pure adrenaline. _

_He vaguely sees Moriarty smirk and nod his head. _

_A swift kick to his midsection crumples the doctor and he can hear the crack of his rib, if not more than one. _

_He bits his lip in pain, refusing to scream out even though his entire torso is on fire. He writhes a bit on the ground, partly for effect and partly because it hurts like a bitch. _

_John lets himself feel the pain in his side before pushing it away with great force. There are more important things to worry about. He tries to acted defeated and even tries to make a connection with the criminal mastermind._

_The blood is as overwhelming as ever but John, with a new sense of strength and perseverance, ignores it and pushes himself in._

_"I thought we already established that our gifts don't work on each other." Moriarty sings as he crouches down to the slump form of John._

_John tries to wriggle away but his torso screams in process. _

_At least there is a bright side to this, now that he is lying down he can reach his gun easier._

_"It's a shame you didn't die the first time." The mastermind states eyes roving down the length of John's body. The doctor squirms uncomfortably. "I didn't really mean to kill you, but Sebastian is a tad protective. Hurting me was an unforgivable offense."_

_Moriarty gleams and puts a hand onto John's stomach, right over the scar that he acquired three months ago. The connection is someone dulled through the clothing but not by much. John doesn't move, he keeps himself limp and tight-lipped, he isn't baited so easily. _

_"I don't know. This seems like fate, Johnny." Moriarty says digging his hand into John's stomach, the wound many be healed by the skin around it is still tender. The criminal mastermind continues, ignoring John's grunts of pain and the puddle of blood that is slowing pooling on the floor. _

_"Something is telling me that it would be foolish for me to let you die a second time."_

_John snaps, he pushes his pain away even more. He refuses to be a puppet to this man's whims any longer._

_"Funnily enough," John gasps and Moriarty smirks smugly. _

_"I don't have the same sentiment with you." John hisses angrily and in one sudden movement, he gets the gun between their bodies and aims directly at Moriarty, pulling the trigger without hesitation fires. He feels the heat and force of the bullet leaving and watches it lodge itself into the Irishman's stomach. _

_An almost identical mark to John's._

_The criminal mastermind falls to the ground with a thud, his eyes and mouth open in a shocked expression. John pushes and scrambles away from the gaping man, the doctor's eyes flying to Moran. John watches as the man stares in confusion for a second before his face twists in fury, shock, and anger, torn between his gasping boss and the man who shoot him. _

_John scrambles away, his arms and limbs discombobulating into a weird version of a crab walk. He thinks about standing up but a sudden throb from his side and ribs squashes that thought. It stops John and forces him to curl slightly to his side, breathing deep for fear of throwing up. _

_Before he has time to continue on his crawl, there is a body on top of him, a fist pummeling into his face. A second passes and John's head snaps back with the force and the pain. He feels fist hit him harder and harder, his neck cracking against the tile floor beneath him with force. He's going to get a concussion if they keeps up, if he doesn't already have one._

_Eventually, John forces his hands up and grips Moran's neck shakily. Before the brute man can move away John sends a turbulent wave of calm through the tactile connection._

_John breaths a shallow sigh of relief as the ex-sniper goes still and slumps over, landing face first next to John's heaving body._

_His vision has black dots dancing around the edges as John just lays there for a moment. He can still tastehearsmellfeel the blood that Moriarty's mind bathes in but its growing fainter and John can't help but think of it as a good thing. _

_He hears them mentally before he sees them. The Special Ops team is projecting their collective adrenaline and servitude._

_He hears the doors to the office open with a thud and a bang, several people enter with heavy steps. John idly wonders how long he's been lying on the floor. _

_His head twinges with the onslaught of closer and more focused projections and John winces at the upcoming headache._

_Yeah, he definitely has a concussion._

_The first person he sees is Mycroft. He resist the urge to throw up on his custom shoes, but only barely. _

_"John." Mycroft's says mentally and out loud and John wonders if he knew that he did that. John looks up at the politician with a blank, bored expression. Or at least he hopes that's what his face looks like, it could be twisted in pain for all John knows._

_"John." This time Mycroft says it louder and John realizes that he hasn't responded and he must look a sight._

_With a nod and a grunt of pain John opens his mouth. _

_"Help me up." The doctor's voice is gruff and Mycroft nods, backing up, and two of his team hook an arm underneath John's armpits. _

_John bits his lip even harder through the pain and sudden nauseousness as he is forced upright. Once his feet hit the ground, John pitches to the side slightly causing Mycroft, of all people, to take a step forward in case John fell. One of John's hand flies to his side and he takes a moment to get himself steady. _

_John nods, his face a picture of confidence that he doesn't necessarily feel internally, and shakily moves away from his supporters. He limps over to Moriarty's form, gasping and putting pressure onto his side. _

_The criminal mastermind's eyes are wide in an unusual show of pain as John stands above him._

_The Irishman opens his mouth to speak but John doesn't want to hear any more of his torturous words._

_He raises the heavy gun and plants a bullet in his brain without a second thought. The smoking hole between Moriarty's eyes winks back at him and John drops the now useless gun. _

_"I want to go home now." John says turning towards to Mycroft before collapsing to his knees. _

* * *

><p>"And then I woke up at the hospital and came straight here." John finishes crumpling on the sofa in exhaustion, his voice is hoarse from the non stop talking. He stares unseeingly for a few minutes, his body tense and tight as he remembers that horrific time.<p>

A few minutes more pass before the doctor hears a faint, _"John." _

He can sense Sherlock's body heat to the left of him as the genius repeats his name, aloud this time. The voice is soft and John has missed it so much, regardless of how often he's heard it in the past months.

"John."

John turns his head, breaking out of his trance of memories and feelings. He immediately notices how close Sherlock is sitting next to him on the settee.

"I'm sorry." John apologizes immediately, shaking his head trying to clear his vision. "I got lost." The doctor admits, shrugging his shoulders sheepishly.

_"You killed him."_

"I did." John says expressionless. He doesn't feel guilt or shame over Moriarty's death, instead, he feels indifferent. That should really bother him more than it is.

_"Moran is still alive."_

"How- Oh never mind." John says smiling for a brief moment before turning his head to look out the windows at London.

The sudden urge to look out the window overwhelms the doctor and he stands cautiously, moving towards the window. The street isn't very busy but it's getting later in the evening towards supper.

He lets his mind wander and get caught up in flashes and images of a dead Moriarty. A taunting Moriarty. The images overlap against the skyline that John has missed so much.

John doesn't hear the shuffling or the rustling of clothes behind him until he feels warm arms wrap around his midsection.

The doctor starts, flinching in surprise but Sherlock isn't deterred. He grips tighter while still being mindful of the bloggers injuries.

The gesture, the innocent and frankly sweet gesture almost breaks the doctor's resolve. He has to hold the tears back against the familiar embrace. Its so warm and familiar and oh John has missed it.

He leans back into Sherlock's chest while his head swims with emotions and feelings. He can't help it, his eyes start to blur with tears. He just wants to sob and fall asleep against the hold. He doesn't want to be exhausted or in pain anymore. He wants things to go back to normal.

He sighs, he doesn't deserve any of those things. The pain and the shame are a part of his penance.

"You should be furious with me." John admits quietly, hoping against hope that Sherlock doesn't move away.

"I am." The words hurt more than they should. They aren't surprising in the least but they still tug at John. The doctor makes to get out of the embrace before it can do anymore damage to his dreams.

But arms don't let him go. They grip tighter.

"I am very angry John." Sherlock says and John is growing more confused by the second.

"But, you know me, I can see logic." Sherlock states softly, his breath puffing against John's ear, sending waves of contentment throughout John's body.

"Sher-" John starts but Sherlock shushes him kindly.

"I understand why you did it. I may disagree, emotionally at least, but I get it." The former detective confesses.

John doesn't know what to think. He is basically one word away from forgiven in Sherlock's book. No, John doesn't deserve that.

"You should throw me out and never want to see me again." John says with a whisper. He is pushing his luck but he is so lost and confused and his head hurts and his injuries hurt and the doctor doesn't know what to do.

"Is that what you want?" Sherlock's voice is so timid and dejected that John immediately turns around the man's arms. He looks up at the former detective who has hunched slightly, tilting away from John, his face pinched with nervousness.

"God, No." He admits thickly, blinking away tears. "I've lived without you for three months. I can't go any longer."

_"Good."_

John doesn't know who is more relieved at that thought, Sherlock or himself. John lets his forehead fall until it rests on the genius's thin shoulder, letting silent tears fall.

John feels Sherlock wrap his arms around the doctor's back once more and John breaks. The past months of Sherlock's mental reflections and declarations, Moriarty's taunts and memories that plague his nightmares, his physical wounds, they are all catching up on him in this one moment and the doctor lets the floodgates open.

"I love you." John blurts out wetly and becomes nervous. He hurt Sherlock and he still hasn't earned nor deserves the love back.

_"I love you too. I missed you."_

John suddenly wonders where the broken man went, the man who was convinced he was a hallucination. He twists his hand curiously to rest upon Sherlock's neck. The warmth of connection spreads and soothes John. He feels the lingering feelings of love settle between them and John revels in it for a moment. He feels Sherlock relax visibly against him. Sherlock doesn't let John in any further than surface thoughts and John doesn't push. He knows that there are things they still need to talk about and issues they need to work out.

For right now, he just settles for the fact that he can still hold Sherlock and that they both are okay.

A sudden thought pierces through John and he sheepishly grins, causing a shy poking through the connection.

_"What?" _Sherlock's thought is suspicious but hold not maliciousness.

"The last time I saw you it was the morning of our anniversary." John mutters quietly and Sherlock tenses involuntarily.

_"Happy Anniversary."_

"Happy Anniversary, Sherlock." John mumbles into the former detectives shirt.

He couldn't help but feel confident that they were going in the right direction.


	3. Chapter 3: Nightmares

It wasn't suddenly all rainbows and everything is fixed magically.

No, but it does get easier.

Sherlock and John still tiptoe around each other, John more so than the detective. The doctor walks around the flat with a guilty expression and shame filled shoulders. He flinches and starts violently when he sees evidence of the turmoil that Sherlock went through during his absence.

About a day after John's story about Moriarty, the doctor stumbled across four empty bottles of vodka while he cleaned the kitchen. Sherlock had been startled out of his relaxed posed on the settee when he heard the initial gasp. It took the genius four seconds to find the cause of that sound. He watched as John, his face expressionless, moved out of the kitchen, the bottles clinking in his hand. Sherlock almost stood up to, what, follow him, apologize, maybe take them from the blogger's hands but John walked down the stairs silently and swiftly, right out of the flat and deposited them into the bins. When he came back, ten minutes later, his eyes were a bit puffy but he didn't speak. In fact, he didn't speak for the rest of the day and into the night. The first and last words he spoke of that day were to ask if Sherlock wanted tea before he retired for the night.

Sherlock, not really use to how to cope with John around again, so he let the man be that day. He didn't ask any questions, he didn't really know what do anyway. But that didn't stop him from feeling a tad guilty, even though Sherlock Holmes doesn't do guilt.

Over the course of the week, they both slowly moved into a tentative routine. John has been forced to stay in the flat because he was technically still dead, even though the majority of those closest to him knew. He even dialed his sister and that is a conversation that shall never be repeated to anyone.

So, it was a waiting game for John. He was at the mercy of Mycroft to get his death revoked.

John spent the majority of his time cleaning the flat thoroughly and silently, occasionally the two of them would have a casual mental conversation. Towards the end of the week the flat was the cleanest it has been in a very long time, even before John's death.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is nowhere near productive with his time. He spent the last three months wallowing in his grief, mooching of his savings with his best friends as bottles. He doesn't know how to act now that his anchor is alive and in his life again.

He spends most of his days on the couch, sifting through his mind palace and fixing the rooms that focus on John, the rooms he may or may not have destroy in a fit of anger and grief a while ago. His mind hasn't even grown bored, despite what John thinks.

Sherlock's boredom and subsequently his lack of cases have been the only heated words the both of them have exchanged with each other since John's return.

And by heated, Sherlock means that when John had asked why Sherlock didn't take cases, the former detective snap a simple, yet acidic 'Because.' and John went quiet.

It was uncomfortable silence, even for Sherlock and much different from the silences he has grown accustomed. It gets to the detective so wholly that he apologized mentally after two minutes.

John had looked up from his paper that he was reading leisurely and just shook his head.

"Its okay, Sherlock." He had said and nothing more.

He remained quiet for another two hours.

Besides John's obvious self-punishment, it isn't all bad. The second night after John's return, they both ended up snogging on the couch again before taking it into the bedroom. John was nervous that Sherlock would reject him intimately because of what Sherlock had been through in the past months. Sherlock had scoffed and continued kissing John backwards towards the bedroom.

It finally felt like they were both settling around each other. John would go quiet less and less often and Sherlock would end up gravitating towards his doctor sometimes, subconsciously wanting to be near him.

It helps that the one thing they both agreed on was that they wanted to sleep in the same bed again, although it was a little reluctantly agreed upon from John's end.

Sherlock would be frustrated with the man's endless guilt if he didn't realize how much John needed the emotions as his own form of punishment. The doctor is very aware of right and wrong and lying to Sherlock is very wrong in his head.

And it eats him up inside.

But Sherlock knows, he is very aware, that if John didn't feel this internal reprimand, he would be reacting much worse. The older man would feel terrible and undeserving of any move that Sherlock made for forgiveness. Men like John need a penance, they need to go a little crazy with guilt. They need to feel like they can make it better by apologizing through actions.

So, Sherlock lets him clean the flat and steal shy kisses, he lets John rebuke his advances because that's John doesn't want to take advantage of the former detective, even though its hurts a little and Sherlock has found himself second guessing John's feeling for him, on more than one occasion.

But all Sherlock would have to do is poke around the mental bond and he would see the pure love and want echoing out and he gently pushes John's reluctance away with his own feelings of love pulsing through the connection.

Still, John has never been one to do things the easy way.

At least with this outlet, John can feel guilty and feel like he is earning his trust back, rather than feeling like he was given it undeserving.

He lets John think he is earning back Sherlock's trust and ultimately love.

Even though, at least to Sherlock, John never lost it.

Also, by letting John feel his guilt, it keeps him close and that's just a bonus for Sherlock. Mostly, because sometimes the genius gets panicky if he hasn't physically seen John within a certain time frame even if they've kept in mental communication. Sherlock has had multiple panic attacks through the week.

Sherlock has gotten better at his control and emotions and he can go an hour without seeing John physically, even though by the end of that hour he is slightly shaky. He can even go fifteen minutes without something bouncing through the link. Anything more than that and Sherlock storms through the flat, yelling furiously and searching for John hesitantly in case this entire thing has been one big illusion.

When he usually finds John, the doctor doesn't say anything. He just looks at Sherlock and takes his hands while he pushes love and calm through their tactile connection.

Sherlock would sigh in relief and John would smile tentatively and hold onto him however long until Sherlock would get bored and walk away.

The only time Sherlock hasn't been bored with John touching him is in the bedroom and not necessarily just intimately. Ever since the first night, after Sherlock reassured John of his crazy notion that he was taking advantage of Sherlock's relief, they would retire to bed together, sometimes snogging, sometimes more but they would always fall asleep together. Tangled in limbs throughout the entire night, only to wake up with sheets rumpled and swaddling them together.

And if they both slept more soundly and with less nightmares and restlessness than that's just an added bonus.

That's why, when Sherlock is thrusted into consciousness with uncharacteristic force that he allows himself to be a bit puzzled. His breathing is heavy and his mind fuzzy. He can't for the life of him stream his usual thoughts together, but he tries anyway.

He remembers being in the middle of a dream, a happy dream, ones with bodies in the refrigerator and eyeballs wherever he damn pleases.

This only confuses him further. His dream should not have woken him up or, at the very least, be the reason his heart is banging against his rib cage like violent drums.

Something has jostled the former detective causing Sherlock to snap into reality at lightning speed. He tries to blink but the moves are sluggish and Sherlock has to quell his panicked thoughts.

He tries to get his mind to cooperate with him so that he can try to figure out what is going on.

Finally, after seconds of trying, Sherlock is able to open his eyes completely and look at the white ceiling above him. They hold no answers for him, so Sherlock moves on. He wants to turn his head to check on John, to make sure he is all right.

Before he can turn his head, a sharp, sudden wave of fear barrels into him with a speed of a train without breaks. A groan escapes the younger man's lips and he still instinctively.

What is making him feeling this way?

An even stronger wave of paralyzing fear restrains him shocks through him and he can't find its origin.

He tries to think but his mind is almost as paralyzed as his body is with fear. All he can think about is getting away. Away from the fear and uncertainty. His body screams at him to move, get away, get away, getawaygetaway.

He literally cannot move.

He cannot make a sound.

He wants to scream and yell and call out for John to help. Someone, anyone to help.

He reaches out towards John mentally and that's when he realizes the problem.

The fear is coming across the link.

He registers the heavy arm across his bare chest and Sherlock, despite the fear, deduces the cause.

It's coming _from _John.

The doctor is dreaming, John is _dreaming_.

Another sharp and fresh wave of fear shoots into Sherlock and with it, comes a jolt of hard pain.

Correction, John is having a _nightmare._

_"John."_

Sherlock calls to the soldier and he knows its pretty weak. Nothing can block the mental wave of pain and fear coming through it.

_"John."  
><em>

Sherlock tries again, focusing as much power into the thought as possible. The doctor only stiffens slightly beside him and remains unconscious of this reality.

Sherlock desperately trying to dispel his panic. He tries to open his mouth, calling verbally to the older man but his lips won't respond. The cupid bow remains clenched together thinly, as if the fear is holding them closed with its icy tendrils.

_"John."_

Sherlock's callings are getting stronger despite his physical restrictions. John is starting to jerk and even a whimper escapes and John snuggles closer, leaning into Sherlock's lean form.

A few minutes pass, time ticking by agonizingly slow, and then some of the fear starts dissipates as the dream shifts slightly. Sherlock can feel it fading away from the connection, minutely, but its enough. With effort Sherlock twists away from John's grip cautiously. He watches with apt attention as John starts to shift with him, his hand clenching and unclenching, before stilling and allowing Sherlock free.

The detective almost falls off the bed with relief. Sherlock breathes, the fear gone just as suddenly as it appeared. He takes a minute to suppress his panicked thoughts and emotions. Tears of lingering fear or relief threaten to fall but the genius stops those before they shed. He is breathing slow and deep as he starts to build his mental shields.

Then he hears John whimper. A truly distressing and pathetic sound that goes right to Sherlock's heart. He glances over at John and watches as the doctor shifts unconsciously and with jerky movements. He can see the pain etched on his face clear as day.

A wave of faded fear reaches the detective but it goes away just as quickly. It is some nightmare if John is projecting as well as he is. Sherlock calls out for the doctor with a forceful but soft command.

"John."

Sherlock shuffles towards the older man, grabbing John's slightly trembling hands and pulling them to his chest. He keeps his mental shields up but the bond is still vibrating with fear. Sherlock can easily push it to the back burner but its still there. He latches onto the link, hoping for its usual warmth and comfort but, instead, he gets cold hostility. Almost completely unapproachable. It's such a new feeling to the genius that Sherlock doesn't think for a few seconds.

He shakes his head and focuses.

Sherlock has seen John having nightmares through the connection before, but they've never been this strong.

A jab of pain hits the former detective's mind and Sherlock closes his eyes automatically, willing his shields to stay strong.

A vivid image shines behind the younger man's eyelids, despite his protection. It's red and wet and hot. The genius focuses on it even thought it pains him to do so.

He knows that these are the images that John is seeing too.

Sherlock holds in a gasp as the image focuses into sharp picture.

It's a river of blood.

He can sense the stickiness and never-ending flow, it reminds Sherlock of the Thames with glaring similarities.

Just as suddenly as it came, the bloody image disappears and Sherlock tries to calm himself.

It's not a war nightmare, that much Sherlock isn't sure if that thought should bring him comfort or worry him even more.

The nightmares where John thinks he is still in the sands of Afghanistan are dangerous for the soldier to wake from, especially if Sherlock wants to come away from them with his nose intact.

There are two different realities that happen when John has a nightmare about the war;

1. If they are touching when the nightmare occurs, Sherlock eases John's mind elsewhere through the bond. This is obviously the easiest way.

2. If they aren't touching its a whole different story. Sherlock usually wakes up to the whimper of the soldier trying to fight off imaginary villains. It's not ideal to reach out and touch John during these nightmares. Any contact that isn't already established before the nightmare starts is considered a hostile force and the soldier will take action and Sherlock has the faded bruises to prove it.

John usually wakes from these apologizing while Sherlock waves him off before the genius prods and pushes until John is snuggled into him, Sherlock protecting the doctor's body and mind.

War nightmares are usually the nightmares that Sherlock can steer John into wakefulness.

But this, Sherlock's never had any experience with these kinds of nightmares. Ones filled with endless blood, ones powerful enough that John projects images into Sherlock's mind.

Its unsettling and it unnerves the former detective to a whole different level.

"John." Sherlock calls out loud while moving one of his hands to cup the doctor's face, sending all the calm and happiness he can through the link.

_"It's time to wake up now."_

Just as he sends that thought, the connection bursts with pain and more flashes of blood. It hits the genius with full force, causing him to blink rapidly. John is starting to move more violently beside him, his head thrashing violently as Sherlock remains temporarily blinded by the pain and startlingly images.

Sherlock shakes his head and makes a decision.

Its time for action.

The genius grips John's face with both hands tight enough to bruise. He blocks out the pain coming through the connection and starts digging through his own memories. Trudging up some of the happiest moments of his life.

The young man is the first to admit that happy memories are practically non-existent in his life. He can count on two hands the truly happiest moments of his existence and all but one include John.

Sherlock digs and digs.

Its not that he doesn't have a happy life, it's more like he just deleted things that seemed unimportant regardless of their emotional infliction.

John's restless body pushes the genius to excavate his brain for happiness. He closes his eyes and thinks, letting his thoughts sink deep into his brain for the most potent moment he can muster up.

He finally tracks a memory down, their first kiss.

This memory has a lot of emotions. Confusion, hurt, regret, and shock. Sherlock remembers idly how he thought he had made a mistake in kissing John, even though it felt so right. He thought he had misread the signals and, in turn, was wrong about a deduction (far more devastating at the time) and he remembers the hurt of John not returning his feelings.

Then John had kissed him back and in the end, relief had coursed through the detective so fast that his veins were on fire. The moment quickly became one of his happiest memories, the positive emotions overshadowing all the confusion and hurt.

The young man focuses solely on the moments of bliss, dragging them to the forefront of his mind.

Sherlock replays the memory through the bond slowly with almost eidetic detail.

The happiness surges through their tactile connection like wildfire, a conflagration of pleasure and comfort blazing through the link.

Sherlock is still surprised, after all this time that the two of them are connected so proficiently and deeply. Although he will never admit surprise out loud. However, when you live with a telepath, you never really know what thoughts are truly safe so he's pretty sure that John has felt or heard it from him regardless.

Sherlock brings himself back to John and opens his eyes to look at the man. The new emotions are counteracting John's fear and the connection surges with conflicting emotion causing the doctor to flinch violently before relaxing, but only slightly. His posture remains tense and his body stills while his breathing shakes and John's face twitches marginally.

Sherlock looks at the doctor's face with a frown. Its not enough and for a moment Sherlock allows himself to be concerned.

A sudden push in the connection causes Sherlock to falter. A wave of dull fear fights against Sherlock's attempts at calming intrusions, causing John's breathing to increase even more. A concerning thought pops into the former detective's head.

If this is just the dream how bad was reality?

Sherlock shakes his head. Its blatantly obvious that this dream is from the days during his absence and Sherlock stills had no idea to what extent John has been through in the past months.

Not saying that it was a walk in the park for Sherlock either.

But if Sherlock understands one thing with certainty, it's logic. The genius knows logic. Its logical that when a human is alone for long periods of time without human contact, it can mess with the mind. Especially if that human was in a situation of constant one sided contact during the forced absence and then an enemy hellbent on destroying the human is added in.

Well, one this is for sure, it would take a lot less to traumatized someone.

But John was a soldier, is a soldier (some stuff never really leaves you) and he has faced and survived far worse in more dire situations.

Sherlock studies the doctor with a far more intense gaze. Worry carves itself into the younger man's face. He studies John's face, scrunched up as his body squirms in a fitful slumber. Something isn't right, based on the sheer force of the output of fear, John has gone through more in the past months than Mycroft or the doctor himself have relayed.

That begs the question, what are they hiding from him? How bad has it really been? Did something worse happen with Moriarty? What aren't they telling him?

Sherlock doesn't make a habit of knowing details about people, oh who is he kidding, that was basically his job description.

He knows more about John than the soldier himself.

The one thing that is a constant in John's life and in the past three months especially, is the constant feeling of uselessness.

If John hates anything, which is rare because that man is like a puppy, affectionate to anything, he loathes the feeling of uselessness.

They've never really talked about the doctor's hatred, almost fear, of being useless. Mostly because Sherlock deduced it and John knew, in his_ special_ way, that Sherlock had deduced it.

Sitting in his bed sit coming back from war had almost killed the doctor. The last three months of hiding away, without adrenaline, must have been terrible for John, worse than torture even.

Sherlock can't even imagine.

Sherlock feels a new wave of heartbreak float aimlessly through the connection, however, this time it's from the genius. The doctor's face twists into a frown in his slumber and shifts with spastic movements. Sherlock, realizing his mistake, quickly shoots away his thoughts and focuses on the task at hand.

Sherlock sends another memory of happiness but the doctors movements refuse to quiet and Sherlock's panic starts to rise slightly.

It's still not enough and one thing is certain, John's agitation and harsh breathing are only growing worse.

John needs to get out of this nightmare.

An idea hits the former detective suddenly and Sherlock trudges up a memory that will surpass all others.

Now, the two of them end up in the hospital more times than recommended and usually these memories are the ones Sherlock deletes, but one in particular screams out

It was during the after math of the first warehouse incident that shakes both of their cores and may have acted as a catalyst to John's...leave of absence.

One moment in the aftermath, between Sherlock getting patched up from his gunshot, shooing away the unusual hovering Mycroft, (which Sherlock found out later that Mycroft had been worried, actually worried about the well-being of John Watson. Apparently, being summoned through mental channels causes civil servants to care) and John waking up from his coma, the detective was finally able to sit in peace. The young man's mind was going a mile a minute with worry. It wasn't the worse week of Sherlock's life because three months claim that title but those seven days were pretty bad.

It was the second day after John had waken from his week-long coma that the memory comes from.

John's face was sweaty and his hair stuck to his forehead. His limbs trembled with soreness and his eyes shot open as he woke up from his nightmare. It's not an uncommon experience but this one had been different. Even Sherlock, who had sat beside the telepath while stroking his hand had noticed.

Sherlock bypasses the feelings of concern, panic, fear, and helplessness and focuses on the one emotion that calmed him that day. The detective remembers feeling relief, relief that John had awoken from his coma enough to even have a nightmare. He felt whole again, Sherlock, in the end, felt safe because John was alive.

As he embraced the shaking doctor, he felt safe and he felt like he was at home.

As the feeling surges through the connection in the present John relaxes monumentally.

John didn't need feelings of happiness or relief. John needed to feel safe. An emotion, no doubt, that he has missed the past three months in his forced isolation.

The memory and it's safe undertones continue to race through the bond and John continues to relax. The detective witnesses tension fall from the doctor's face fade considerably and his limbs still with relaxation. The doctor's breathing evens and he snuggles closer to Sherlock's side before falling into a deeper slumber.

John does this all without waking.

Crisis diverted.

But, a trickle of lingering worry itch at the back of Sherlock's mind. He can help but feel something going on within John's subconscious.

Something that could either break John or make him stronger.

And Sherlock doesn't know which one he needs to ready for.


	4. Chapter 4: The Former 'Former' Detective

Oofda.

Here we go, this chapter makes me want to write a scene between Lestrade and John, so expect one of those eventually.

This story is unbeta'd and not brit-picked so there will be mistakes. My apologies.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>A week passes, slowly, since the night that Sherlock woke to John's paralyzing telepathic dream.<p>

Not that John remembers it anyway. He woke up that morning with a slight headache but his mood otherwise cheerful considering the tentativeness and still fresh return from his death. He had turned his head slowly, lazily reaching across to the still sleeping genius and kissed him awake.

John didn't know any better and Sherlock decided not to tell him. Instead, he let the doctor snog him reverently until they were both forced to get out of bed, for the bathroom and tea respectively.

Since then, some of John's guilt and shame have withered and the tension had started to ease out of the walls encompassing 221B Baker Street.

The confidence and normalcy between them strengthened, and they are on the path to healing.

And if Sherlock occasionally panics when he can't physically see John sometimes or if John goes into a guilt-ridden silence every few days for an hour or so, (however, the hours are decreasing and staying for lesser time intervals), well, neither of them mention it.

For the most part, life moved on and they just silently decided to live their lives.

It got only easier when Mycroft informed John that he is officially alive again.

Now the doctor can go and get milk or leave for a walk, just to get out of the flat, when the guilt becomes too much to bear. He took up walking around Regents Park recently, that way he stays within mental range of the genius to reduce panic attacks.

Really, that's the only thing that hasn't really change. His gift is just as dependable as ever but living alone, without any contact in the last three months has made John less dependent on his gift. Whatever he wants to say, he says it out loud, partly out of habit partly because all he says nowadays are long explanations and conversations.

That doesn't deter Sherlock from using the mental bond just as much as he used to. When the genius isn't projecting his thoughts, through the always open bond at subconscious intervals, John hears endless streams of scientific jumble that makes no sense half the time, but makes him smile regardless.

Most of the time there are intermitted sayins of 'John' being thrown in the middle of sentences, sometimes when John walks past the thinking detective, other times just completely random. Sometimes, the telepath even hears different languages float through the connection causing John to smile tenderly.

He wonders if Sherlock is just refreshing his skill for different languages or if he doesn't know that he switches languages, his thoughts just moving around with a touch of multi-lingual ADD.

All John knows, is that Giovanni sounds positively filthy when it floats randomly through the link on the days that Sherlock thinks in Italian.

John can, right now, hear the man in question pacing behind him. He turns his hand for a quick glance and sees Sherlock's mouth moving and his hands gesturing wildly in explanation. John delves deeper into the connection for a brief moment.

Flashes of cells, and microscope images, unrecognizable things that are grotesque and creepy when magnified float around. John smiles affectionately at the pure science floating around Sherlock's brain before he pulls back, not willing to distract the genius and his thoughts.

He moves his eyes back to the book in his lap, that he really isn't reading, and proceeds to get lost in thoughts again.

He closes his eyes briefly and listens to the clanking in the kitchen and grins for a spell.

Sherlock back in the kitchen, with his experiments and his science, is a relatively new thing. Not just since John's return either. When John moved into their bedroom, they turned the extra bedroom into a lab of sorts. A place where Sherlock could do whatever he wanted basically, as long as it didn't get added to their rent at the end of each month.

Not that Mrs. Hudson, or John for that matter, would ever venture up to that bedroom. It's really for their own safety.

So the fact that Sherlock is experimenting in the kitchen is a bit current news topic.

But, John can't find himself to be surprised, really. When John entered the kitchen and saw the microscope set up and Sherlock sitting behind it like a statue the doctor stood confused a minute before prodding the connection. In the midst of more scientific jumble, Sherlock had repeated John's name no less than a dozen times.

Sherlock wanted to be closer to John and the upstairs bedroom is too far away.

It's a flattering, if not worrisome, thought, and John chooses not to say anything, he just brushed his fingertips lightly across the back of Sherlock's neck before preparing his tea that morning.

And that was that.

And despite the new, and inevitable future, messes that Sherlock creates/will create in the kitchen John will continue to say nothing.

Mostly because he so incredibly happy that Sherlock seems to be doing something with his mind again.

John had to listen to the horror stories of what Sherlock had been like and what the man had gone through in the months of the doctor's absence. Greg had met him at the pub, (only after the DI made him apologized to Mycroft for using his powers against him) and explained his own experiences with Sherlock in detail.

The blogger had sat at his barstool, nursing his beer of the night and listened with rapt attention to Greg's hesitant narrative.

All the while, letting the guilt silently eat at him.

Lestrade recounted the multiple sweepings he did at the flat, looking for drugs or anything else the genius would use to harm himself. John just sat quietly, asked a few questions, and was sick for every horrifying second.

John knew about the lack of cases, he knew something had happened, nothing anybody has told him about (for his wellbeing or for Sherlock's John can never tell) but in that entire time, he didn't expect Sherlock to cease doing experiments. The only one that Greg saw him remotely invest time in had been a test on how to get alcohol into his system in the quickest way possible.

The doctor couldn't imagine Sherlock just letting his brain waste away like that, and John shivers even now at the thought of what Sherlock's bleak future had once looked like.

So, if he has to clean up a little extra mess during the day, he says nothing. The doctor is perfectly content to let the younger man do whatever he needs to do with his brain to heal.

And John is confident that Sherlock is actually starting to heal. Apart from doing more experiments, John has caught the man looking at news sites on the computer.

John lets himself feel a sliver of hope, hoping that the broken man that he had come home to is healing, hoping that Sherlock will start to leave the flat again, whether its to get body parts at the morgue or, John crosses his fingers, to chase down criminals again.

John can see the gleam in the brunette's eyes when he scans news articles that deal with murder. He sees the twitch of fingers, almost in want.

But, Sherlock doesn't do or say anything about it, sometimes he just closes the laptop (sometimes in defeat) and cuddles next to John who is inevitably watching some crap telly or Bond movie.

John doesn't mention it and just grips the thin man closer most of the time.

However, as the days pass on, John is getting more and more worried.

Cases, running throughout London, chasing criminals and even irritating the NSY staff use to be what Sherlock lived for and now he just doesn't. His brain is rotting and John is at a loss. He just gets brushes off if he tries to mention it, even subtly.

Alas, John's determined to change it, he just can't fathom how.

Little did he know, by putting down his book on the table beside and picking up the paper would be the catalyst to his problem.

He scans the front page, rustling the paper a tad before moving on the the inner pages.

A familiar trill of curiosity pushes through the link at something Sherlock has found in the kitchen and John ignores it, looking and reading the occasional article.

They are silent for a good half an hour before John speaks again.

"Oh look, a murder." And John doesn't know why it comes out, he really doesn't, but it's like his lips opened of their own volition and utter words that he hadn't even known he'd been thinking. He winces at his own bluntness and tenses in apprehension.

He doesn't even risk looking behind him and shifts the newspaper nervously.

The connection pulls taunt with tensions and apprehension and John shuffles the newspaper nervously.

"Leave it be, John."

The words are said out loud and quietly, with that dejected tone that John _loathes_.

However, John notices secondarily that he is not met with an ounce of hostility.

He contemplates for a minute, wondering if today would be the day they have this conversation.

"I don't understand why you stopped." Apparently they are. John snaps his mouth shut, willing his brain to stop saying things out loud before the blogger can think through the consequences.

John can hear Sherlock, his body unmoving because of the complete silence coming from the kitchen. The mental connection starts to recede, decreasing it's lilac and honey senses just as faintly, and the older man can feel Sherlock starting to put up his mental barriers.

The mental barriers going up is what sends John into a bit of panic. Their connection has been open ever since John's return and the blonde man has become increasingly dependent on it, just as much as Sherlock had during his absence.

"I mean with that big brain of yours-" John starts to ramble, trying to not lose control of the conversation, before being interrupted by the connection blossoming again with a burst of honey.

_"I tried."_

The thought is barely there and the doctor turns around to look at the younger man, his face twisted with tension. He sends cautious confusion and uncertainty into the link. _"What happened?"_

_"I tried, at the beginning."_ Sherlock hands have stilled in his lap and he lifts his head slightly to meet John's patient gaze before turning his eyes downcast again.

John stands and turns his body fully towards Sherlock, opening his mouth even though he doesn't know what to say.

It doesn't matter, because Sherlock starts talking before John can even find the right words.

"It was the day after your funeral." Sherlock mumbles out loud, his voice a bit raspy and his eyes blurring a little bit with memory. He doesn't look at the doctor, his gaze zoned out, staring straight ahead of him.

He must have recognize on some level his hoarse voice because the former detective continues his tale telepathically.

_"I walked into a crime scene, even though Lestrade didn't want me to be there and I froze, or I think I did." _

John walks towards the kitchen as Sherlock tells his story mentally and ends up standing directly next to the genius, Sherlock's right shoulder perpendicular with John's chest. John has a had out to touch the former detective, but halts in fear of being rejected or worse, sending Sherlock into a panic.

_"Lestrade had to call Mycroft apparently and the next thing I remember I was sitting on the settee." _

John watches as Sherlock closes his eyes in pain and defeat and that decides it. The doctor lays a hand on the thin man's shoulders and Sherlock responds by leaning slightly towards John and his warmth.

_"The victim was blonde man and I could only see you." _The thought is quiet and filled with such pain that it breaks John's heart even more. Emotions and feelings pass through the connection without obstacles. John catches the pain, grief and longing from the memory, but he also catches feelings of helplessness, self-loathing, uncertainty and a little bit of humiliation.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John whispers and wraps his arms around Sherlock, on arm across his back, curling around his shoulder and the other snaking down his chest and wrapping tightly around the man's thin waist. He pulls the younger man against his chest and doesn't hesitate resting his check adjacent to Sherlock's curls.

No wonder the younger man doesn't go to crime scenes anymore. He was scared, hell, still is scared. He saw John in the face of a victim, who had been viciously murder no doubt, and Sherlock, already feeling the grief from loss just couldn't cope. But that isn't all of it, Sherlock's complex brain, somehow, equated the situation with proof that he couldn't do his job anymore.

He couldn't deduce the scene because he was blinded by grief and his brain told him that the next logical step was to quit his job, his _passion. _

Jesus Christ.

The doctor doesn't know what to say, so, he sends calming thoughts through the connection, love and trust and happiness.

The two of them remain embraced, silence passing around them for a while, with John contently sending thoughts into Sherlock's mind along with the occasional remorse filled apology.

"It's in the past. We have to move on." Sherlock replies, a little too eager to be believable, as he straightens slightly but doesn't pull out of the embrace.

John's eyebrows rise in surprise before a thought comes to him. What does Sherlock mean? That he just won't ever go back to the consulting detective business ever again? John lifts his head to look at Sherlock with shock. No part of him can imagine Sherlock without his need for running about London.

John shakes his head.

Not taking cases, that's absurd and not really even moving on. John thinks to himself, its more like moving laterally, if moving at all.

"Yes, I suppose we should stop dragging our feet." The doctor muses to himself making a split decision.

He finds the hand that is wrapped around the younger man's waist and moves it to cup Sherlock's face, forcing his chin to the right so that John can look into Sherlock's gaze. Once he makes eye contact, John says, "That's why you have to start taking cases again."

Sherlock jerks back, his eyes slipping away from his lovers stare and his face slipping out of John's grip. The doctor expects a cold, stubborn stare to emit from the man but when John looks into his eyes they are only full of pain and fear.

The brunette doesn't say anything for a minute, his eyes whipping around like a caged animal as random thoughts bounce through the link and around John's mind. Some of them are almost incoherent, but John catches fear and helplessness the most.

Eventually a, _"I don't know if I can,"_ is sent solidly through the link. Sherlock's eyes seem to deflate a little bit at the admission but John doesn't move away. Instead, he cups the man's face once again and places a kiss upon his forehead, sending love through the warm spot where his lips meet the smooth skin.

"Sherlock," John starts, letting his lips linger close to Sherlock's forehead as the genius closes his eyes. He presses his lips against Sherlock's forehead once more and opens the connection even further and, instead of talking, lets memories speak for themselves. He sends memory after memory of Sherlock's sheer brilliance and confidence that John has witnessed.

Flashes of Sherlock, one of which consists of the memory of the genius strolling through a crime scene, deducing the motive, the killer **and **insulting Anderson's tie within the time span of two minutes before leaving, claiming he was bored and even hungry.

He floats his own feelings of tenderness, trust, awe and admiration that roughy translates to, _"I think you are brilliant." _

Just in case Sherlock didn't get the truth behind John's words, the doctor opens his mouth and says, "You are the smartest, most brilliant man that I've had the pleasure of knowing."

He bends his head a little to meet Sherlock now open gaze. He pushes is forehead against the genius's own, saying, "You are capable, much more than you will ever know."

Sherlock's eyes are blurred with threatening tears but he doesn't look away. He does, however, shake his head slightly in disbelief.

_"I don't know-"_

"Do you trust me?" John interrupts the thought before Sherlock starts to really believe himself.

_"John, I-"_

"Do you trust me?" John repeats, this time with a little more force, keeping eye contact. Sherlock's eyes widen slightly before nodding his head.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock says quietly, his shoulders relaxing slightly with the admission.

John takes a deep breath.

"If you find that you can't believe in yourself," John has to stop here and put up a warning hand because he sees Sherlock start to open his mouth to interrupt.

"If you find you can't believe in yourself," He starts again with a little bit more force, "you can, for the time being or as long as needed, trust my words. Trust my feelings." John sends more memories of Sherlock's brilliance and deductions, letting the sheer confidence in Sherlock's abilities bleed through the link.

"I will_ never_ stop feeling the way I do about you. Trust in that and borrow it until you can trust yourself." John finishes, pressing his lips silently against the former detective's lips sending more love, wonderment, amazement, and confidence through the connection.

Tears fall from Sherlock's eyes as the pure emotion sparks with electricity through the bound.

_"Really?" _

John hears the pure self-depreciation in that tone and ignores its, and instead, sends forceful happiness to emphasize a resounding _"Yes."_

_"John." _

"Sherlock, let me help you." John's tone is just short of pleading as pushes at the connection. Sherlock's hands come up to grip John's wrists, his palms warming John.

_"Okay." _

John can't resist smiling broadly and asking, "Are you sure?"

Sherlock nods and pushes reassurances through the connection. His thumb rubs against John's warm skin on his wrists.

"So, I can call Lestrade?" John asks quietly. Normally, he would wait but he wants to see how quickly Sherlock adjusts to the idea of going back to cases.

Sherlock doesn't say anything for a minute or so, seeming to think through his thoughts. John scans his mind and sees the inner crisis going through.

Finally, a faint _"I trust you, John." _falls through the link and John's smile gets even wider.

"Good, I'm glad." John responds with fevered whisper and presses his lips against Sherlock's once again. His thumbs rub across the man's cheekbones where he can still feel left over tears from their conversation. He pulls away from their lip lock, before it turns into something else completely (not that John would object, per se), and looks at Sherlock's eyes for any sense of doubt or hesitancy. The detective, no more former anymore, just looks back with the utmost trust.

"Tea?" He asks, wiping away the remnants of wetness from Sherlock's face as the genius nods. John putts around putting the fixtures together while Sherlock goes back to his experiment. The only evidence left is the slight puffiness around Sherlock's eyes.

Soon, Sherlock is lost back in the world of science and John smiles affectionately putting Sherlock's mug next to his elbow, a safe distance from sudden, flailing movements.

He retreats into the bedroom not wasting any time. He pulls his phone, given to him at the same time Mycroft came around to return John's browning which had been taking out of the flat for safety reasons that didn't make John feel all the great. But digressing, John's new phone is a fancy smartphone that Mycroft insisted he owned, even though John barely knows how to work the bloody thing, (He secretly thinks that the politician knew that and gave it to him anyway. Spiteful bastard).

He puts his own mug on the bedside table and dials Lestrade number before setting himself on the side of the bed.

It only takes a few rings before a gruff voice barks out at him.

"Lestrade."

John resists the urge to wince and feels bad for Greg's obvious bad day.

"Hello to you too, Greg." John teases slightly, letting his good mood leech through the phone, maybe Greg will catch some of it.

"John." Greg's voice brightens considerably, and John can hear the quieten of extra noise on the DI's end. He probably moved away or into his office away from the noisy bullpen.

"How have you been?" John asks politely, even though he just say the man not two days ago at the pub. But, it's the British thing to do.

"Fine, fine. How about you? Is everything okay?" Greg asks, not even bothering to hide his concern and worry in his voice and John hurries to respond.

"No, no, I'm fine, we are both fine. No worries, mate." John replies with a warm tone that he knows immediately soothes the DI.

"Good, good, I'm glad to hear it John." Greg sigh as he replies, just as warmly causing John to smile. "What can I do for you, John?"

John smooths his hand along his jean-clad thigh in a suddenly nervous gesture. He doesn't know where the sudden caution is coming from, considering this is practically his idea.

"Do you have any cold cases?" John rushes out before her loses anymore more of his nerves.

Silence for a beat, then, "You are kidding." Greg's tone is happy but full of disbelief and amazement.

"You've really talked him into it." Greg whisper over the line as if telling a secret, or not wanting to get his hopes up. When John answers in the affirmative, he can hear the low whistle that emits from Lestrade. For a second, John wishes he would have told Greg in person so that he could read the man's mind and hear what he is thinking.

"I think I just got him thinking about them again." John answers diplomatically. "I was thinking just cold cases for now. Something slow." Sherlock may put his trust in John but the doctor doesn't want to push him back into the fire right away. Cold cases will satisfy his brain while still remaining detached from active crime scenes for now.

"Yeah, blimey. Good on you, man." Lestrade says and John can hear the smile in his tone. "I've got some files laying around that might interest Sherlock."

"Really?" John says breathing a sigh of relief, letting tension go that he hadn't know he'd been carrying during the conversation.

"Yeah, of course." Greg states, "I'll bring them over later, sound good."

"Yes," John sighs happily, "that would be perfect. Will you stay for tea?"

"Yeah, why not? Mycroft is working late tonight anyway." Greg says and John revels in the easy friendship between them.

"I'll see you later tonight, murder permitting." The DI chuckles.

"Good, sounds like a plan." John agrees wholeheartedly before a thought hits him and he licks his lips nervously.

"Greg?" John says, his tone serious and a turn from the easy warmth they had fallen into just seconds before.

"Yeah," Greg says just as nervously, and John can tell that the man has straightened and tensed just by the tone of the doctor's voice alone.

"Can you make sure there aren't any blonde male victims." John says evenly even though his insides are aching.

For all that Sherlock insults the man's intelligence, Greg understands what John means wordlessly.

"Already planned on it, John. I'll talk to later." Lestrade says with such comprehension that John feels sheepishly silly for being nervous in the first place.

"Okay, and thanks, Greg." John replies with ease.

"Anytime." Greg chuckles and says his goodbyes but not before they set a time to go to the pub this Thursday in addition to tea tonight.

John hits the end button on his phone and sighs, running a hand over his face and through his hair.

He grabs for his tea and hopes, as he sips, that he didn't step over any boundaries. Sherlock did agree to the cold cases, or at least implied his agreement. He says he trust John and the doctor can't help but feeling that his is a step in the right direction.

There still a doubt that niggles at the back of John's head, maybe he should have let Sherlock take the iniative in procurring case files.

John shakes his head negatively, trying to dispel the miserable doubts.

He can't help but wonder if this will help the detective or making the man revert back to his brokenness that he just escaped from.


	5. Chapter 5: Back In The Habit

I'm a little excited about this chapter. I'm introducing a new character. A Yarder named Clarke, just like from the RDJ movies, except he is younger.

Anyway, how is everyone doing?

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>London criminals had a day off, it seemed, because Greg did end up coming over that night, and along with himself, he brought along three cold case files, each one sealed with a band of red tape, making them even more tempting.<p>

John's fingers twitched, he wanted to rip the red barrier away and see what mysteries lay inside.

No such thing happened, instead, Greg had just put them on the coffee table, letting them flop down like he didn't care about them. John thinks it was because Greg didn't want to bring attention to them in case Sherlock reacted badly.

Rather perceptive of the man, actually.

Nobody touched them or said anything and Greg accepted John's offer of tea.

They chatted amicably the entire night, affection and easiness projecting from Greg's mind without John's intrusion or assistance. After it had gotten late, Greg and John had gotten caught up in a debate about Doctor Who of all things, the DI left without a second glance to the files on the table.

John remembers walking Greg out with pleasant goodbyes and even more pleasant mental emotions. The doctor had smiled to himself before he bounded up the stairs to a worrying sight.

Sherlock had moved from his chair, the place where he had been sitting all night rather sulkily, and was standing in front of the case files, his eyes slightly gazed over with apprehension. Fear and uncertainty hung over of the bond and John made a move to get closer to Sherlock.

_"I have some experiments to do."_

The thought had come quickly and before John got any closer, the detective had fled in a hurried pace, right into the kitchen and started to clatter around with dishes and the microscope.

John sighed and glanced at the files. Well, at least he didn't throw them out, John thought to himself and proceeded to leave them there and join the genius in the kitchen.

The files stayed in the same spot for two days, until John was forced to move them for the flat's weekly clean.

Over the next few days, the files would continue to move, partly from John picking them up and placing them in spots where Sherlock would be forced to look at them. Other times, the files would just show up in random places, underneath the microscope, back onto the coffee table, on one of the chairs and one weird time, on the bedside table.

But, they still hadn't been open, the red tape remained intact for all three files.

It isn't until now, another two days later, that John physically sees Sherlock touching the files.

John walks into the sitting room and stops as he sees Sherlock standing in front of the windows, curtains pulled back but his gaze unseeing. He's clutching the files tightly to his chest like a shield. John doesn't have to look deep into the connection to see the internal debate waging around Sherlock's mind. It's mostly played out on his face and with the occasional projecting emotion.

John watches Sherlock over the course of an hour, the detective unmoving and distracted.

John eventually probes the connection gently and hears all of the pros and cons of Sherlock's decisions. He is surprised by how deep in thought Sherlock actually is, how deeply the case files are affecting him, distracting him. Not once does the genius's face twitch or even register John's mental existence.

The doctor sighs and slinks away from the surface and decides to leave him be to work out the problems by himself. If he decides not to look today, then John will be just as supportive as if Sherlock opens the case files.

John pitters around the kitchen, looking for distractions and anything that he can put some elbow grease into while he pokes the connection every once in a while.

He resists (and fails) the urge to smile when the thoughts start to change. Sudden thoughts of sisters and knife wounds float through the connection and John breathes out a sigh of relief, pausing his cleaning of the sink out, letting his head sink down as the deductions come over the connection subconsciously.

He stands there, reveling in the feel of an active observations and the second hand adrenaline rush it creates.

_"John, how long would it take someone to bleed out from a stab wound that barely nicked their spleen?" _The thought is fast and just so...normal that John feels a tear spring to his eye out of relief, happiness and general hope.

He wipes his wet hands on a nearby towel and silently walks out of the kitchen. The detective has the files strewn across the table, just like he would normally have done months ago.

John doesn't bother to hide his smile, nothing could contain his happiness at this moment.

He listens to Sherlock as he sits down beside the thin man, grabbing for files and medical reports to find anything that he can help with.

He makes sure he memorizes Sherlock's face, the smile and the pure joy, when the detective solves his first official cold case (boring, easy).

John's sends pride, amazement, and love through the connection as Sherlock grabs the next file and continues to work.

* * *

><p>Its like a switch's been flipped because Sherlock seemed to finally click. His brain, the part that deals with observations and deductions, turns on again and with full force. John would often find himself stopping what he is doing to just listen to Sherlock's mind. He listens to the random observations, some about John, some about Mrs. Hudson, though mostly they seem to be about random people that he sees from the windows of the flat. It appears, to John at least, that the genius is testing his skills on accuracy and application. John smiles and leaves him to it on most days.<p>

Even the detective's mannerism and demeanor have reverted slightly, he straightens and tips his head up when he observes and deduces, just like John's use to seeing and that fact makes John the most hopeful.

As it turns out, all but the last cold case that Lestrade brought could be solved without leaving the sitting room. Sherlock didn't say anything but John read through the connection that Sherlock expects to go into the field sometime soon. So when the time comes and Sherlock grabs his coat before grabbing John's as well, the doctor doesn't hesitate or ask questions, he just thanks him and follows out the door and into a cab headed for NSY.

Walking into the police headquarters is very strange for John, he had not been back since his return and he found himself getting lost in nostalgic joy at the familiar noises and somewhat familiar faces. He could sense Sherlock rolling his eyes, not unkindly, before tugging the shorter man's elbow and pulling John along.

Sherlock strolls onto Lestrade's floor, barely waiting for the elevator doors to open fully, before striding purposefully through the desks heading towards Lestrade's office without a care, pulling John around the corners and desks the entire way.

Eyes, filled with shock, surprise and even some fill with relief, (of those very few who could actually tolerate Sherlock's antics) follow the two men. Their stares go completely unnoticed by anyone but John who catches some of them while he's head swivels, still looking around despite being manhandled by the thin man.

They barely enter the office, that hasn't really changed, before the genius starts to rant and rave about murderers and motives, catching Lestrade off guard.

Whoops, they should have called.

John decides not to worry about that and pushes it out of his mind. Instead, jerks his elbow out of Sherlock's grip, but not before sending the man a mock glare physically and through the connection. He moves away strategically, in case the detective means to grab him again.

He starts his polite greeting, saying hello to Lestrade and asking him of his general health, despite Sherlock's huff of impatience.

It takes about fifteen seconds before Sherlock interrupts, telling the DI about his deductions and completely ignoring pleasantries.

Both John and Lestrade just look at him with mirrored amusement. The detective's eyes are alight, with a shine and brilliance that John had almost forgotten.

John just sat patiently while they discuss the cases (see: argued...slightly). There are frequently insults, the words 'idiots' and 'morons' being flung that has John chiding the detective every time with admonishment projected through the bond, which in turn has Sherlock backing down moderately.

The genius doesn't stop completely, but John doesn't feel too bad because he can feel the relief and amusement coming from the DI who is secretly glad that Sherlock is back to his old self, despite the fact that they are arguing. John realizes, with a small internal gasp, that Greg has missed it, the arguing, the intelligence, the brilliance, he missed being called an idiot by Sherlock.

So, John doesn't really stop Sherlock from being insulting completely, for the sake of Greg's amusement.

Twisted man, this Greg.

Finally, after several minutes of arguments they finally get to the part where Greg just shuts up and listens, while taking detailed notes. Sherlock informs the DI where he can find evidence to convict the murderers with little deductions about their stupidity at leaving evidence in the first place.

Lestrade puts a hand up to cease the rant before it starts again and opens his mouth.

John, up until this point, had been sitting leisurely in one of Lestrade's guest chairs, watching Sherlock pace around the room and listening to the genius's mind fire observation after observation.

So when Greg yells suddenly, it startles John, _the telepath_, enough for a him to start violently.

"Clarke!" Lestrade's voice echoes throughout the floor and John takes a second to appreciate the command and authority in the tone. John sits up a little straighter and looks around for the man that he has never heard of before.

A young man knocks on the door nervously and Lestrade waves him in. He flashes a small nervous smile in John's direction before looking at Sherlock, slightly paling.

John can't help but feel immediately sorry for this man.

"Sir." Clarke's voice is a deep bass that surprises John and has a confidence that doesn't reflect his appearance.

Lestrade waves the man closer, and starts talking with him, his dark brown hair flopping and his well proportioned muscular body quivering as he walks towards the desk, past a twitching Sherlock. He would be attractive if he hadn't been such a young boy.

John distantly hears Sherlock's mind ramp up and John looks over to find Sherlock eyes twisting and turning over the man's body.

Uh oh.

This kid doesn't stand a chance. Sherlock is brutal with new people that he meets.

John tries to look over at Greg to get his attention, to save the poor man, but the DI doesn't look up.

Sherlock's mouth is open before John can stop him.

"A constable just promoted to sergeant, interesting. especially for a 22 year old." Sherlock says causing Clarke and Lestrade both to look up. The man in question turns a little bit to look at Sherlock.

"Sir?" He questions nervously and John can see the twitching of his hands, as if he is consciously trying to not wring his hands together.

Sherlock moves towards the man and starts to circle him, like prey. Clarke's eyes narrow with worry but nobody says anything, too shocked by Sherlock's audacity. (Even though they both, John and Lestrade, should be used to it enough by now)

Regardless, it's like watching a train wreck, John just can't look away.

Sherlock continues.

"You are relatively new to this department, instead of the uniform, you needed professional shirts. Your wardrobe is noticeably new but not expansive or varied as you've already worn this outfit once this week based off the old coffee stain on your sleeve and the stain of mustard on your tie," Sherlock pauses.

Clarke instantly looks down at the stains on his outfit, poking at the coffee stain slightly but not saying anything.

"..so not a lot of money then." Sherlock proceeds, pacing a circle around Clarke again. "Maybe you've a sick relative? But you're parents have been dead for quite sometime I believe, at least your mother, no mother would let their son have a haircut like that and you haven't change the style in years. Could be an aunt or uncle but doubtful." Clarke reaches to his hair subconsciously, shocked into being enraptured in Sherlock's words just as much as John and Greg. "So cheating wife is more probable, spending money to look good for her adulterer." Sherlock pauses in front of the young man and squints, moving his face close to Clarke's and sniffing. Clarke, holding his surprise and in, leans back slightly. "No, not cheating, just ridiculously prudish young woman who definitely likes to shop."

John, during Sherlock's pause for breath, risks a glance at Greg. The older man's mouth is gaping and the doctor can hear speechlessness and his mind paralyzed with shock. John wants to say something, he tries to push something, a mental thought or even words, but nothing happens. John's body and brain are not listening to him and the doctor can only watch in rapt attention as Sherlock keeps talking.

"You didn't sleep last night, the bruises under your eyes are evidence to the that, is it the new baby keeping you up or was it the worries of the new job?" Clarke's eyes widen even more with shock. "You're afraid that you're not ready for such a responsibility. You are young and feel inadequately inexperienced, and rightly so."

"Sherlock." John growls and the doctor does an internal happy dance, thanking the gods that his mouth started to work. He sends stupidity, shame, admonishment and unhappiness through the link. _"Bit not good." _

John starts to stand, in prepartion to move over to the man and apologize heartily before dragging the detective out, by the ear if necessary.

"Wow," Clarke's admission makes John stop half way in the movement of getting out of his chair before falling back into it, in even more stunned silence than before.

_"What?" _

The thought comes from both Greg and Sherlock at the same time.

"What?" Sherlock says out loud, moving his body to stand right in front of Clarke, his eyes narrowed.

Waves of uncertainty and confusion dripping through the bond and John can't help but agree with the emotions. What is going on?

"I mean," Clarke starts, licking his lips nervously, "I heard about what you do and I didn't really believe it. The guys would tell me but I thought they were just trying to prank the new kid."

Sherlock backs away gracefully, his face blank but shock bouncing around the bond. He risks a glance at John and the doctor forces himself to just shrug in surprise.

Nobody moves for a minute, Sherlock tapping his finger against his lip and Clarke starts to shift nervously.

"I didn't realize that you would be extremely accurate." The young Sergeant states matter of fact.

_"The last person who didn't run away screaming had been John." _

The errant thought hits John, causing the blonde man to look at Sherlock, about to say something but then his attention gets drawn back to Clarke.

The younger man had turned to face Lestrade again and asks a tentative, "Sir?"

Lestrade, the poor guy, doesn't respond right away, still trying to wrapping his head around what just happened.

"Sir? Did you need anything else?"

"Yes," Greg clears his throat. "I need you to take these notes to Gregson and tell him to call my phone if he has any questions. He'll know what its about." Greg's voice is sturdy, all evidence of shock gone and exuding authority.

Clarke straightens automatically and with a 'Yessir," he starts to move towards the open door.

Sherlock, Greg and John watch the younger man hit the doorway and then turn around looking straight at Sherlock.

_"Here it is." _Greg's thought projects into John and the doctor glances his way before bringing his eyes back to the stand off.

"One thing, Sir?" Clarke asks, his expression blank with a hint of curiosity. Sherlock nods with the same amount of curiosity. "How did you know about the baby? Nobody knows about the baby."

"Elementary." Sherlock says smugly, a quirk of his lips littering his face faintly. "You have some baby lotion, the kind that parents frequently use on their infants heads because of dry skin, on your neck. It took me a little bit to get that from the smell alone but..."

"Huh," Clarke says, with almost no emotion whatsoever, before rubbing at his neck and coming away with a crusted piece of lotion. "I hate this stuff." Is the last thing Clarke says before walking away, nodding to Lestrade and John in goodbye. The piece of paper clutched in one hand while he rubs absently at his neck with the other. People eye him coming out of the office, but he doesn't look any worse for wear.

Sherlock turns away from the door and faces Lestrade who's face returned to a stunned expression.

_"I like him."_

John resists the urge to laugh out loud at the thought coming from Sherlock.

"What...just happened?" Lestrade asks quietly after a few minutes of silence, he had been standing until this point, he collapses into an ungraceful heap in his chair.

"I have no idea." John says looking out in the cubicles for answers that aren't there.

Sherlock just shrugs and says, "We should keep him," that has John chuckling out loud this time. Sherlock sends a smile to John and begins smoothing down his coat with one hand in preparation to leave.

"Keep him? He's not a dog, Sherlock." Lestrade says loudly, standing up to get the genius's attention again. The detective ignores him and sends a mental, _"Come along, John._"

John makes a move to follow Sherlock out the door and head towards the elevator.

Before he can get out the door, Lestrade calls after them.

"Wait, Sherlock what about the third case file? Sherlock!" Lestrade yells and John sees Sherlock turn around and poke his head back through the doorway to look at Lestrade. John has to lean back or he would have a head full of Sherlock bouncing against his chest.

"I'm still working on that. You will have the murderer by the end of the day." With that, Sherlock nods, just as Clarke had and meanders away.

John turns away from watching Sherlock walk away. "I will text you with information." John says placating and Lestrade wave him off.

But not before hearing _"Bloody Idiots, those two,"_ projected from the DI.

John smiles as he jogs to catch up to Sherlock, making eye contact with some of the more hostile yarders, daring them to say anything to Sherlock.

Just as he gets into the elevator, Sherlock's already on his phone, not really paying attention to John, he sees Clarke. He gives him a bright and friendly smile, wondering if the young man knows how special and rare he is, to which Clarke doesn't but smiles back just as the doors close.

* * *

><p>The case proceeds and the two of them share a companionable silence in the cab headed to St. Barts. John doesn't ask questions, he just scans Sherlock's surface thoughts and hears their direction and their motives for going to Barts. John backs out of the connection once he finds out what he needs to know and just sits there silently, looking out the window while his mind wonders aimlessly.<p>

He lets his mind wander to Clarke and how shocking and a bit refreshing the man's reaction is. He feels like they've got an another ally on the force and John doesn't read any hostility towards the younger man from Sherlock's mind and for that John is happy. It's not often they meet people like Clarke, people who take Sherlock with a grain of salt and tolerate him.

John reaches across the seat and squeezes Sherlock's hand resting on his thigh, just because he can and he's being a bit sentimental.

If this had been the Sherlock before John's death, he would have just squeezed back once before removing his hand to steeple them under his chin.

But this Sherlock has changed. Yes, he still has his deductions and observations but his priorities have shifted a little bit. Now, Sherlock grips back, looking at their intertwined fingers, the connection buzzing and warm, before meeting John's gaze. The detective smiles sweetly, but doesn't let go. He does go back to observing and thinking but his hand remains in John's.

When they arrive at the morgue, Sherlock squeezes John's hand before letting go and tearing out of the cab in a whirlwind of black and haughtiness, leaving John to pay the cabbie.

Some things never change.

When John catches up to the man, Sherlock is already bending over a cadaver, his magnifying glass out and looking closely at the fingernails. John thinks about asking or at least scanning the genius's thoughts but Molly comes into the morgue before he can make a decision.

He smiles at her tenderly as she comes in with her arms full of books, reports and other things that make it look like a cluttered mess.

"John." She exclaims, returning his smile just as tenderly and John moves to help her, taking some of her burden and following her to a desk in the far corner. "How have you been?"

John winces internally, he hasn't been to see Molly since his return. He knows that she had been instrumental in his death, having to sign the death certificate and make Sherlock believe that John's death was real. He's been kind of avoiding the memories and in turn that meant her.

He suddenly feels a bit guilty, he has always had a soft spot for her and it's not her fault in the least.

"I've been good, Molly." He replies affectionately and helps her straighten the books on the desk.

"Good, I'm glad." She says straightening up to look at John. Her face hasn't changed since John's been gone and she looks happy. They chat amicably for a while, every once in a while John looking over a muttering Sherlock who has commandeered the morgue's microscope instead of moving to one of the labs.

Molly tells John about her new boyfriend which makes John feel immensely happy for her.

At one point, Sherlock calls John over to look at something and Molly takes the opportunity to get coffee for the two of them.

When she returns, warm perfect coffee handed to him with a grateful smile, her tone takes a serious note.

"How have you been really, John?" John looks at her seriously before opening the connection between the two of them. Fresh grass and cinnamon infiltrate his mental senses and John takes a minute to enjoy her senses. He's always like her taste/smell, its refreshing and undemanding and so uniquely her.

Right now, her mental link is hiccuping between ease and worry. John opens his mouth to talk before he even decides consciously.

"I've been doing alright," John's voice lowers a bit, "It's still hard sometimes with the guilt." He avoids Molly's eye contact sheepishly. He hasn't really talked to anybody about it besides Greg and they only really go over the surface of what John is feeling.

But, Molly, she has always been kind to John, even when she was in love with his boyfriend for most of the time. He trusts her.

"But," He says before she can interrupt with platitudes. "It's getting better, a lot better. Especially now that he is using his brain again."

Molly nods in understanding, making humming noises. "That's really good, John." Molly's voice is sweet and laced with sincerity and she rests her hand on John's exposed forearm.

The connection is instant and John listens to the thoughts and feelings in his mind. Affections, happiness, peace, hope, delight, comfort and pride. The doctor has to lock his body from swaying against the onslaught of happy moments.

For a second, he registers Sherlock projecting John's name, he must be overflowing into the bond.

He smiles in sincere gratitude back at her and even sends it subtly through the bond. She nods and pulls back before their topic becomes light once again.

Molly begins telling John the story of how she met her current boyfriend. She had jokingly assured John that she was pretty sure this one wasn't criminal mastermind because Mycroft had checked into it for her. That statement caused a completely different conversation that resulted in the admission that, apparently, Molly and Mycroft have gotten closer because and since John's death and proceed to have tea occasionally.

And doesn't that thought make John's head hurt.

Halfway through the story, they are both startled by Sherlock jumping up in victory and a triumphant shout.

_"Excellent!"_

John smiles at the younger man and dives into the connection to see that Sherlock has found out where the killer is based off of dirt and how the nails had looked in the crime scene photos.

Brilliant.

Sherlock grabs his coat excitedly and rushes out of the room, the mental connection muttering about the Thames and neighborhoods surrounding the docks. John looks at Molly with a smile that she returns without hesitation, both feeling happy and relieved that Sherlock is back to his old self.

"I better go." John says, putting his coffee down reluctantly and tells himself that he should get a move on before the detective leaves without him.

He grabs his own coat and thanks Molly for the coffee and chat. Just as he turns to move towards the door, he hears Sherlock call for him mentally, slightly panicked. John hurries out into the hallway and sees Sherlock. The man has stopped down at the other end of the hallway, his body posed like he's just about to turn around. John can see the slightly panicked look and jogs over to him with a smile.

"Let's get going then." He just says, smiling, and races past the detective. Happiness exudes from the connection and he can hear Sherlock following him out of the building and into a cab.

* * *

><p>Sherlock spends the entire taxi ride on his phone and John listens over the connection at random names and property holdings for wherever they are going. He just sits back quietly and doesn't bother the genius. They eventually pull up to a neighborhood that runs parallel the Thames. It looks like a warehouse or office district with access to the river because John can see sporadic docks jutting out into the water.<p>

They pile out of the taxi cab and watch it leave. It is dusk now and the purple and red haze of the sun setting reflect off the water.

_"Come along, John." _

John looks around and realizes that Sherlock has started walking down the street, towards the mouth of an alleyway the John didn't notice until now. He catches up to Sherlock and scans the connection looking for answers.

All he gets back is excitement and adrenaline. He shrugs and follows in step with the man.

_"We are looking for an Eric Melville. He doesn't own a flat or property except for his boat so that's what we are looking for. It's called Maria." _

Sherlock turns his head towards John and the doctor nods in understanding. They inch along the alleyway until they come to an opening. John can see multiple boats moored to the a massive dock systems, with wood jetties branching and twisting into multiple paths. John automatically drags his eyes along the docks and up and down the bank, surveying his surroundings easily and efficiently. Sherlock's hand sneaking into his pocket startles John into paying attention to the genius and he wonders for a second what the man is doing. Then he feels the reassuring weight of his Browning slipping into his pocket.

He sends amusement, uncertainty, and intrigue through the connection. _"Did you have that the entire time?" _

Sherlock just smirks smugly, pats John's upper arm and walks towards the boats. John smiles after the detective, suppressing a chuckle and gripping the gun in his coat pocket.

They walk down to the dock together and continuing down the main wood planking. Eventually, they come to a split veering to the left and right. Sherlock looks at John with apprehension. John smiles and nods his head to the left. He sends saftey and reassurance to Sherlock. _"It'll be fine." _Before, Sherlock can second guess it, John strolls to the right, making sure to keep the connection open so Sherlock doesn't panic.

John follows the boats, looking at their names in the fading light. He is almost at the end and is about to turn back when he looks at the last boat. Fancy script that is sprawled elegantly across the back, spelling _Maria, _stare back at the doctor and John smiles in triumph.

He looks at the boat and realizes that its bigger than he had expected it to be. It consists of two decks, the top being smaller and where the steering and controls are located. The bottom deck is obviously bigger, although it appears to be mostly enclosed, spare about six feet in the back where numerous amount of fishing equipment are strewn haphazardly. John eyes the cabin and it looked to recess a bit into the bowels of the boat but the doctor can't be sure how far.

He could see a light streaming out from underneath the closed door and soft music floating quietly through the air.

He sends a poke through the mental connection, trying to get Sherlock's attention.

_"John?"_

John sends a quick burst of happiness before he adds on pride and excitement. _"Yes, I found it." _

_"I'm on my way." _

John doesn't wait for too long and he hears Sherlock's quiet thoughts get stronger before he hears the man's footsteps.

Sherlock looks at the boat once and smiles triumphantly at John.

_"Gotcha."_

John smiles back and steps back a little bit to see what Sherlock would do next.

"Eric Melville." Sherlock says leaning forward trying to see into the cabin. His voice is loud and carries dramatically across the docks and surrounding water. "I know you are in there. I wish to speak with you."

John's hand goes to his pocket and grips his gun. He stares at Sherlock incredulously who turns to sneak a glance at John. He sends confusion and a forceful wariness. _"What are you doing?"_

Sherlock looks at him briefly before shrugging smugly. _"Worth a shot."_

That damn man, John thinks in amusement. Before he can scold Sherlock, there is a grumbling and shuffling coming from inside the cabin. He can hears things get shifted around and thunderous footsteps echo almost as loudly as Sherlock's voice did.

A rough cockney accent calls out to them incoherently, muffled by the door.

"Mr. Melville." Sherlock repeats with nervous twinge, that John realizes is an act.

"Ya,', Ya' 'M coming. 'Old yer 'orses." The door to the cabin burst open with a thud and the man comes out, younger than John would have though based off his voice, obviously rough from cigarettes rather than age.

John raises an eyebrow at Sherlock, sending curious uncertainty. _"Is that him?_

The detective nods and brushes against the connection softly. John takes out his phone and sends a text to Lestrade.

"Wha' this about?" The man says and John looks at him again. His brown hair is long and shaggy. There are stress lines around his forehead and eyes and the man looks sick with worry. John watches as Melville steps to the edge of his boat, his hands on his hips, shooting a fierce glare at the two of them. He looks like he is getting ready for a fight.

John shuffles his feet unnoticed, placing them shoulder width apart into a position to easily fire his gun if need be.

"I'm here about the murder of Jessica Dunner." Sherlock says without any hesitation, leaning forward with excitement.

Subtle.

The man's expression sours further and his eyes narrow. "I don' know wha' yer talkin' about." The man's voice is clipped with tension.

"I believe you do." Sherlock says, shuffling forward, getting closer to the murderer. Great." She was your co-workers sister, you loved her but she didn't love you back, or maybe because all you have to your names is this boat. It could have been either."

John can tell the exact moment that Melville decides to lunge. His face went from closed off to angry to down right furious by the time Sherlock finishes talking and the man's feet locked and braced themselves. That's how John is able to tuck his gun away and lunge at the man, mid-jump, preventing his clenching fingers from reaching Sherlock's throat.

John drops the man onto his front and puts a knee to his back. Zip-ties are shoved into his face and John is forced to jerk his head back slightly before realizing what they are. He takes them, smiling gratefully at Sherlock, only wondering idly where they came from.

He grabs the man's hands and twists them behind his back, effectively clasping the zip-ties around them, restraining the man. John keeps his knee against the cockney's back and doesn't move. His face wide with a silly smile as the adrenaline courses through him.

_"Well done, John." _

John looks up at Sherlock and smiles harder and feels the amusement ooze out around the bond.

"On behalf of the New Scotland Yard, we are detaining you on suspicion of murder for Jessica Dunner." Sherlock states, his tone bored as he jumps into the boat, moving towards the cabin aimlessly, John just shakes his head and watches in bemusement at Sherlock's curiosity.

"You can't do this!" The man screams, struggling under John's grip, but the soldier just presses his knee a little harder into the middle of the man's back, stilling him.

"You killed a woman." John states calmly, watching the man's antics.

"That bitch had it coming." Melville spits and bucks against John's body weight.

There is sudden force beneath him, force that John isn't prepared for and Melville succeeds in bucking John off. The doctor is forced backwards, his back landing on the hard wood with an 'oomph' and the air leaving his lungs in a shocked breath. He doesn't let himself be distracted, his hand moves towards his coat pocket to grab his gun. It never makes it, a sudden, strong body lands on his chest, on of the man's knees pinning his hand to the dock and the other knee moving to his neck, crushing John's windpipe.

John scolds himself for being rusty.

He sends panic into the mental connection as he tries to push the knee off with his other hand. He can see the angry black eyes of Melville sneering down at him and isn't that a terrifying look.

Just as black spots are threatening to hinder his vision, the body weight is suddenly gone and John gasps and coughs, rolling to one side and onto his hands and knees as he heaves in breaths. His lungs expand and his breathing takes on a wheezy sound.

_"John."_

_"John." _

The doctor looks over at the detective. He sees Sherlock straddling the man's chest and throwing fists into the man's face.

"Sherlock." John rasp, trying to call but his voice cuts out and John is forced to endure another set of coughs. John pushes calm and safe thoughts through the connection, trying to dispel the anger, pain and fear that have saturated Sherlock's side of the bond. Sherlock's fist is still posed, ready to strike, when he jerks his head over at John.

The doctor smiles and sends another calm wave before sending a sadness and pleading fear. _"I'm fine, I'm fine. Please stop. Stop."_

The detective nods, a quick swift gesture, in understanding and snaps his hand to the man's face with precision, effectively knocking the man out.

John sighs in relief and that sends him in a little coughing fit. He pushes back so he is sitting on his knees just as Sherlock crouches next to him.

_"Are you okay?"_

The thought holds panic and John brings a hand to the man's cheek with a nod. He sends content calm and happiness. _"Yes, I'm fine." _

"Help me up?" John asks sweetly and the detective gathers the man around the waist and helps hoist him up. John sways a bit as his head goes a little fuzzy but it passes soon enough and John smiles. He squeezes Sherlock's arm and walks out of the embrace.

He walks over to the unconscious form of the criminal.

"That was a close one." John states lightly and a tad nervously. He felt the panic and the fear that Sherlock was feeling, still is feeling. This incident could bring them back to square one.

He feels Sherlock stand beside him and John looks at the taller man.

"Yeah, it was." The response is tight but it's better than no response at all. At least, Sherlock isn't going into a protective panic. They'll have words later but for now they are okay and John smiles a wide and open smile until the younger man looks at him.

When their eyes meet, Sherlock sends a tentative smile and reaches out to grab John's hand. The doctor squeezes the grip and sends love and gratitude over the link.

A few minutes later, John's gift picks up the familiar bacon and fresh grass taste/smell that belongs to Lestrade. The doctor smiles and seconds later he hears and feels the docking beneath them start to shudder with multiple footsteps. The doctor applauds Lestrade on his reaction time. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes or so since John texted him.

The DI arrives in their line of sight, his legs moving fast and his breathing hard. John can see the DI's eyes scanning the two of them. John latches onto his mind and brushes against feelings of worry, exasperation and slight panic. John winces slightly but doesn't say anything.

Lestrade relaxes once he gets close enough to see that they are, relatively, unharmed. He takes a moment to breath heavily before his eyes look down and see Melville.

His eyes narrow and he sighs with exasperation.

"Oh shit."

John resists the chuckle that wants to escape. He watches off to the side as Lestrade calls in more people, one of which John recognized as Clarke, to take care of the crime scene.

John and Sherlock, however, still don't get to leave for another forty-five minutes.

After Sherlock informs the DI that the evidence they would need for a conviction is located in the cabin, Lestrade spends the next ten minutes yelling at Sherlock for running into danger without back up.

To which, Sherlock argues back that John is his backup. Which then pushes the spotlight onto John and another ten minutes pass, this time Greg yells at John for running into danger after the clearly psychotic madman.

It's when John tries to defend himself that Lestrade finally notices the doctor's raspy and horse voice that accompany the stark, reddening bruises around the man's neck. Then, the DI spends another ten minutes yelling at John for being a stupid idiot who can't stay away from trouble, all the while dragging the doctor to the waiting ambulance. He sits John down, rather roughly, and doesn't move until John consents to being looked at.

While John is getting seen to, (nothing major is damaged, just a sore throat and bruises for a couple of days), Greg spends the next five minutes yelling at Sherlock, again, for dragging John into trouble.

All in all, its a lot of yelling. John allows the DI to get his frustration out because John can feel how worried the man is, for Sherlock and the doctor's well being. After sending Greg's worry through the connection to Sherlock, and the two them share a brief, mental conversation about worrying their friend, Sherlock huffs and lets Lestrade yell to his heart's content.

After John gets cleared by the paramedics, they spend the last ten minutes or so giving their statements.

Finally, after forever, they are allowed to leave. The night has turned into a perfectly cool evening and the two of them decide to walk for a little bit before catching a cab.

Once they are far enough away. John lets the chastisements from Lestrade roll off his back and grabs for Sherlock's gloveless hand. He sends overpowering emotions of admiration, pride, and amazement into the link. _"You did it."_

The answering smile is so wide that John can't resist mirroring it. The doctor just leans into the taller man, letting their post case high and happiness spread throughout the connection between them.


	6. Chapter 6: Mycroft Pays A Visit

Alright, nothing much to say, except I hope you guys are still with me and enjoying it.

Mistakes are my own...blah blah blah (And I had a bitch of a time with tenses this chapter, so my apologies).

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p><strong>One Month Later...<strong>

John heaves the plastic bags off the rack and walks out of his favorite Tesco's, well really his second favorite, Sherlock ruined his first favorite.

Long story.

Anyway, John walks out of Tesco's with a smile on his face and bread, tea, jam and milk in his hands. He turns to the left and heads towards Baker Street, towards home.

As he starts his twenty minute walk, John lets his mind wander.

This past month had passed in a kind of blur, a happy, adrenaline filled blur.

It all started the day after Sherlock, and John by extension, completed their first official 'in the field' case.

(Flashback)

The consulting detective, no 'former' anymore (and is that a positively giddy thought), had opened their bedroom door so loudly that morning, that John had bolted upright with a hand flying to the gun that wasn't under the pillow. The younger man had dragged him out of bed rather contritely, despite their late night of celebratory dinner and then an even more celebratory sex marathon. John still aches but gets up anyway, pulling on his clothes without looking at his choices.

Sherlock had come storming back into the bedroom, claiming that John didn't have time to preen himself because they had to leave right that second. It wasn't until John was in the cab and they were half way to their destination that the doctor decided to ask where they were going exactly.

To which of course, the detective didn't answer.

Instead, Sherlock was vibrating with excitement, a kind of excitement that would have had John, before his death, nervous and wary, but now, this John, had to hide his smile behind a very convenient yawn.

It wasn't until they pulled up to New Scotland Yard that John finally understood what had gotten Sherlock so excited.

Sherlock and John stormed into NSY, straight for the elevators and up to Lestrade's floor. The entire elevator ride, John stood next to the trembling genius, who looked like he was going to explode with enthusiasm at any moment.

"Christ, I'm going to need a coffee." John had said, just as the doors opened and Sherlock shot out while John shook his head with exasperation.

John followed the detective's tornado-like wake, himself walking with less destructive force. Christ, if he hadn't known where Lestrade's office was located already, he would have just followed the bewildered looks. He passed some desks, smiling sheepishly at some of the friendlier yarders but continues towards Greg's office.

As John made his own way to the DI's office, he got his own fair share of perplexing and pitying stares and double takes that puzzled the doctor. John hunched a little bit, resisted the urge to cringe at the heat of some of the stares, and carried on, walking a bit faster.

_"John."_ The thought was less panicky and more demanding John of his presence and the doctor hurried around the last corner and stepped swiftly out of the hallway and into...

...World War III.

Or what seemed like it anyhow.

Now that John had gotten closer, he didn't know how he hadn't heard all of the yelling and bickering before. They were not being quiet. At All.

The loudest of them all was Sherlock's brain, it was lobbying tense insults and deductions at anyone and everyone in the room.

John wondered briefly how the detective could get so riled up in less than the two minutes it took John to get to the office.

John took one look around the room and found the reason.

He was presently engaged in a rather tense, not quite shouting, but heated match with Donovan and Anderson, while Lestrade tried to referee.

He would have been amused, because Sherlock was back in his element and the insults were quite humorous, but it was so god damn early and John couldn't fathom the energy.

John released a sigh and leaned his body against the door jamb of Lestrade's office, taking a curious look around while scanning the other occupants of the room.

In addition to the three previous mentioned yarders, DI Dimmock and a man John recognized but didn't know the name of, were stationed in Lestrade office, which isn't that big to begin with, off to the side. Both of their faces held the same, some what, comical expression of shock and stunned silence.

Probably at Sherlock, because the consulting detective is now hurdling insults about Donovan and Andersons' mothers.

Before John finished his lazied scanning of the office, the last occupant had already made a move and walked over to him.

Clarke, whose real name, John had found out last night, was Micah Clark but he got the nickname Clarke early on and that's what he preferred, he said it suited him and John had no qualms, had moved to stand in front of the doctor.

The young man's bright green eyes found the doctor's gaze and gave John a friendly smile.

"Good morning, Sir." Clarke had said quietly, as if he didn't want to disturb the noise coming from the area around Lestrade's desk, where the discussion was getting louder and more heated.

John huffed a laugh at Clarke's whispering and then nodded his tired greetings, too tired even, to open his mouth. Clarke would understand, he had been there last night.

Ah, last night, John remembered idly. When they had given their statements and Sherlock (and John) gotten thoroughly chastised by Lestrade, Clarke had been there the entire time. He was second on the scene and waited with John while he got looked at by the paramedics and even helped Lestrade by writing down their statements. When it was Sherlock's turn to get yelled at, John and the young Sergeant had conversed very easily, and John would even go so far to say that he liked Clarke and the man's easy going nature.

"How are you, sir?" Clarke's whispered words pulled John out of his memories and had him smiling.

"I'm fine, why?" John asked curiously, wondering way the man was giving him that worried look. Clarke shifted closer nervously and John resisted stepping back, his wonderment sky-rocketed at Clarke's weird behavior.

"Your neck, Sir, it doesn't look good." The sergeant whispered glancing behind to see if anybody had heard him.

Realization slammed into John's brain. The looks he got walking through the floor on his way here and Clarke's worried expression, they all made sense now.

The bruises on his neck are probably even worse than last night, he hadn't had a chance to look in the mirror. He cursed and sent a faint bitter glare-like emotion into the connection, not distracting Sherlock's tirade but enough to make the doctor feel better.

"I suppose it doesn't." John had replied and made his way wordlessly out of the room and towards the loo to check for himself.

He opened the door to the empty restroom and strolled to the mirrors above the sink. Red, with splotches of purple, marks stared angrily back at John and the doctor sighed. Clarke was right, these look far worse than last night. He ran his hand along the marks and poked at the tender aches that he hadn't felt before he saw them in the mirror. He can see a long, broad band where Melville's knee pushed into his neck, the thick bruises etched into his skin with brutal accuracy.

John's eyes leave the bruises on his neck, there was nothing his could do about them anyway, and followed the mirror up, to look at his face.

His tired eyes stared back at him before he noticed something else.

"Oh, Christ." John had said with a defeated groan. His hair was all over the place, the epitome of bedhead. He sent another splash of bitter resentment through the link and goes about matting his hair down, trying not to feel the shame of having walked out in public looking like he did.

Once his hair was at the very least tamed, he made his way back to the office, where the voices had quieted down but he could still he hear them going at it, this time Dimmock was adding his opinions in the mix.

Oh great.

John listened to what they were talking about for a little bit but then realized it was so trivial that it didn't bare repeating and he stopped, deciding to look for Clarke.

In the time that John had been in the bathroom, Clarke had disappeared and the doctor looked around for him. Just as he was about to give up, a sound down the hallway caught his attention and he turned to see the younger man coming towards him with something in his hands.

John's mouth started salivating once the smell of coffee assaulted his nose.

"Here you go, Sir." Clarke had said and John gaped for a few minutes, half savoring the smell and the other half baffled by the kindness. Clarke's had was outstretched and the coffee cup, John noticed, was huge. John reached his hand out and took the cup, closing his eyes and inhaling the bitter, familiar smell as the steam warmed his nose.

"Clarke." John said fondly and idly as he tasted the coffee. "This is the best coffee I've ever had." The doctor had said and he opened his eyes to see the sergeant blushing faintly. "Thank you." He added sincerely, taking another sip.

"It's nothing, sir." Clarke said quietly.

They stood in companionable silence for awhile until John broke it.

"How did you get wrapped into the circus in there?" John had asked as he nodded his head toward the office where the shouting was still coming from.

Clarke shrugged before he said, "I was filing down the hall and the next thing I know, Mr. Holmes had me by the neck collar and pulled me into Lestrade's office."

"Really?" John had said, not even bother to hid his surprise. Surprised that Sherlock had grabbed the man because he wanted Clarke's presence and surprise that Clarke went along with it. Only Clarke, John was learning, would admit to being dragged by a oversized man-child as something he normally does, an everyday behavior.

"Really, Sir." The young sergeant confirmed, looking if anything, bemused.

John sighed in exasperation before changing topics again.

"So, how many times do I have to tell you to call me John." The doctor says, a slight rib to the young man. Last night, it had been a constant battle to get Clarke to call him John but the man had refused.

Clarke was about to open his mouth to protest, again, so John had added, "Anyone who doesn't repulse Sherlock on sight can call me John." As if it was a rule of the house and maybe John should think about making it one, really.

"Nonsense, sir," Clarke started as he looked slightly self-conscious, "I was just being me." The statement was so easy and completely matter of fact that John, if possible, respected the man even more.

"All the more reason to call me John." The doctor responded slyly

Clarke had just smiled with a wiled gaze that had John huffing a laugh and made his way past the doctor, not confirming or denying the use of the doctor's christened name, going into the office.

John raised his eyebrows in curiosity and decided to open up a link with the man and was met with...

...nothing.

Absolute and utter silence.

John almost dropped his coffee in shock and panic, his breath started hitching and John was frozen.

The last person who John had met with a silent brain had been Moriarty and that didn't end well. At all.

John clutched his styrofoam cup tightly while his insides panicked. His brain went off with uncertainties and dramatic, panicked questions.

What? Who is Clarke? What does he want? What if Clarke was out to get them? Why else would John not be able to read him?

John watched his hands and noticed faintly when they started to tremble with shock, fear, confusion, uncertainty, and panic, all coursing through his mind.

He stared at nothing until he noticed a person standing in front of him. Sudden hands wrapped around his own, dragging the doctor away from Lestrade's office. The doctor, in his shocked state, was forced to follow.

It wasn't until they were around the corner, verifying that it was empty, that John noticed it was Sherlock who had a hold him and that the detective had been calling his name mentally, for how long John had no idea.

_"John. John. John. Listen to me. What's wrong?" _The doctor had been projecting his emotions, his fear. Sherlock had his hands gripping John's shoulders tightly as he tried to get John to respond.

_"John."_

"I, Clarke. I-" John stammered because he just couldn't fathom it. The young man, who had a darling baby, John had seen pictures last night, and who was young and yet friendly and liked Sherlock. Not just liked either, he respected Sherlock and had gained Sherlock's respect in turn.

Which had never happened before, not ever. Sherlock dragged the young man into the meeting for Christ sakes.

_"John."_

How could this twenty-two year old be evil?

_"John."_

How could Moriarty be evil? Bad people don't have age requirements.

_"John. John!"_

John shook his head to clear it, his eyes closed briefly.

_"John. What about Clarke?" _

Sherlock gave John a small shake of the body, the coffee settled between them sloshed ominously. A sudden thought materialized in John's head and he threw the coffee cup away into the rubbish bin next to them with disgusted whimper. What if Clarke had poisoned him? What if the man was working with the remains of Moriarty's empire?

He felt okay, but how long would that last?

_"John."_ Sherlock's thoughts distracted him and they were getting more and more panicked the longer John didn't respond and the doctor forced himself to take a deep breath and tried to quell his own panic and said, "Clarke, I can't read him."

Sherlock's eyes shot up in surprised before narrowing uncertainly. _"What do you mean, you can't get a read on him?" _

"I didn't mean I can't get a read on him, I mean't _I __can't read him." _The last part John had yelled before looking around with militaristic precision to see if they had been overheard. His eyes had scanned the still empty corridor and he had leaned back around the corner to see if there was anybody there. It was all clear but John forced himself to quiet down.

He was seething, not at Sherlock but more at the mounting suspicion, fear and confusion that was bouncing around in his brain, "There is literally nothing there, Sherlock. He is silent." He let the _just like Moriarty _hang in the air after his statement, but they both heard it all the same.

Sherlock, despite hearing the hanging silent statement, had his face and his emotions twist with confusion, as if the detective still didn't see the problem.

John turned his body to twist out of Sherlock's immediate area and paced the empty hallway.

Sherlock didn't follow, not right away, he was too busy trying to figure out what John was saying and he had been racking his brain for a reason behind John's sudden erratic and panicked behavior.

"What if, Clarke, what if he-" John started but he can't get his words to make sense through his mouth. Panic and fear had clouded his brain and John flinched in preparation for the oncoming slaughter of blood that he had been fearing might float through his mind at any moment.

Sherlock's eyes widen in realization before he stood in front of John, effectively stopped the doctor in his tracks and grabbed the man's bare hand.

The warmth through the tactile connection stopped John and made him look up.

_"John."_ Sherlock eyes were blazing and pleading John to calm down and understand._ "Clarke is not a bad person."_

John snorted and refused to meet Sherlock's eyes, sliding downward and away with disbelief. "How do you know?" His voice was quiet and child-like in fear.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and John was forced to look up and see the smug expression. _"Consulting detective, remember?" _

John huffed in exasperation still not entirely convinced, his mind automatically found all of the times when Sherlock had been wrong in his deductions. Before he can voice those, Sherlock's thought pierced through his mind.

_"John,__ you cannot just assume those you cannot read are automatically out to get us." _

And that thought stopped John short immediately, because Sherlock was absolutely right.

John gaped as his mind whirred with thoughts. Even though Moriarty had been evil, that didn't mean that all people the telepath will potentially come across will automatically be evil as well.

So far, he had only met two, but what's to be said that Moriarty might have been just a bad egg of the dozen?

John's face twisted in dubious admission. What Sherlock had been saying is maybe, probably true.

John still had his doubts but conceedes the point and as soon as he does, the panic starts to recede.

"I guess." John said, he looked up at Sherlock and felt slightly silly for panicking with such force. He sent a feeling of remorse and sheepish guilt through the connection. _"I'm sorry." _

Sherlock smiled with a sigh of relief before he descended, placing a quick kiss against John's lips.

_"I love you." _

John smiled, despite his freak out and the fact that they were in the middle of Scotland Yard.

"I love you too." He whispered his reply and squeezed the detective's hand as he pulled the taller man back towards Lestrade's office.

When they arrived back in the office, Donovan and Anderson had gone, but Dimmock, the gentlemen John didn't know, and Lestrade had their heads together, as they looked over a file strewn about Greg's desk.

Before Sherlock joined them, John put a hand on the detective's arm which caused the man to look at him questioningly. John had raised his eyebrows, pointed at the stranger and sent questioning confusion into the link, as if he said, _"Who is that man?" _

John didn't want to keep having to refer to the man as 'stranger' in his head for the rest of his life.

Sherlock's lips quirked and he sent a single word.

_DI Gregson._

John smiled gratefully and let go of Sherlock's arm. The detective moved over to the desk and started to talk with the DIs.

Ah, Gregson, John had actually heard the name around the Yard but had never met the man. He took a closer look at the dirty blonde haired man whose posture oozed authority and wondered if he would be friend or foe. Normally, John would automatically assume foe but now with Clarke...

Speaking of Clarke...

John scanned the office and saw the young man hovering patiently behind Lestrade, his eyes were interested as he listened, but he kept his body physically back, until he was summoned.

John hung back and let the DI's and Sherlock talk about god knows what as he observed Clarke dubiously.

He may put his trust in Sherlock but John didn't feel the need to not be wary of Clarke.

The tired sluggish nature that John had experience this morning had gone and now John had focused his adrenaline from his panic on the unsuspecting Sergeant.

The doctor wondered briefly why this had been the first time he had tried to read Clarke's mind, usually he feels out minds when he first meets them. But when they were in Lestrade's office yesterday, John had been too shocked to read the man's mind an then at the crime scene he was preoccupied with Sherlock and his neck and Lestrade's yelling. He scanned his memories idly, looking for a time when they were talking during John's EMT-required once over, that John had tried to read Clarke's mind. Nothing.

In fact, every time that John had tried to delve into the surface of Clarke's mind, John's own mind would would get deterred or distracted. It was like, something had changed John's priorities, somehow something had made John's reply to the topic of conversation a priority over reading Clarke's thoughts.

Interesting.

John pushed his mental awareness out and tried to get into Clarke's brain.

Sherlock's voice had suddenly drifted to John and the doctor looked away from Clarke to peer at Sherlock's flailing arms as he tried to explain why the sister was responsible for-

No!

John screamed at himself for getting distracted. He was slightly annoyed by the fact that he had been so easily diverted from reading Clarke's mind. He hunkered down, mentally, and tried again, this time not letting himself be distracted by Sherlock. He felt things, words and feelings from the connection with Sherlock and even a projected thought from Lestrade, things that had tried to distract him but John didn't stopped.

He pushed and twisted until he felt himself firmly in Clarke's mind.

It was still silent and that unnerved John. He tried to dig gently but there was nothing.

Nothing, until something tickled John's mental senses.

There was something there and John pushed a little further, deeper as he tried to grasp the little bit of stirring in the other wise blank mind.

Finally, as if something had clicked, the smell of subtle peppermint permeates John's mind. It was so pleasant that John got wrapped up in it.

This smell was so pleasant that John was asking himself if something evil could have this pleasant, this friendly of a smell.

John didn't think so but he still remained worried. A sudden noise scared John, enough to make the tentative connection snap and John to look up from the ground he had been zoned out to. Sherlock had a grin on his face while Dimmock, Gregson and Lestrade both looked tired but convinced.

The mental bond buzzed with victory and John knew that Sherlock had won his side of the debate.

But that wasn't what had John stopped in his tracks. After he had done a customary sweep to gauge expressions and locations, John's eyes moved over to Clarke whose posture had changed considerably.

The young man was guarded, he had stepped back a little bit and his face was a mixture of confusion and even slight fear.

Before John had gotten time to be puzzled about the young man's expression or dig deeper into his mind further to see if maybe he could break whatever the mystery Clarke's mind was, Sherlock had grabbed John by the elbow and pulled him along.

For now, John acquiesced that he didn't think Clarke was out to kill them, based off of the Sergeant's reaction at least, but there something was definitely something different about the young man and John was determined to figure it out.

But, as Sherlock dragged John physically out of Scotland Yard, John let the mystery lay until another day.

(End of Flashback)

* * *

><p>John didn't get back to the mystery of Clarke until a long, long time later.<p>

Instead, Sherlock and John had become extremely busy for the next week and a half after their visit to Scotland Yard. Ever since Sherlock's first field case, the detective had demanded more, which was the reason they were there in the first place, John had learned later. Sherlock, through that week and a half worked through almost all of the unsolvable cold cases that Lestrade and even some that Dimmock and Gregson had.

An incredible feat even for the world only consulting detective.

John and Greg had discussed it over a pint one night and John could tell how impressed he was at the genius's fast work. While they sat there drinking their beers, John had felt the pride coming from Greg as well as unexpected gratitude for John. Gratitude so vast, that the doctor knew Lestrade would never say it out loud and just the fact that he thought it was enough for John.

When John had arrived home later that night, buzzed only on the positive emotions, Sherlock had grabbed them and headed back out to catch an embezzler, John smiled the entire time.

John has never seen Sherlock so enthusiastic, or as manic, with cases in such a long time.

But it was different too. Sherlock hadn't become obsessive like he once was. He always informed John mentally of where he was going and even talked to the doctor through the connection as much as he could if they weren't together.

The younger man started to differentiate between priorities. Sherlock had sometimes, stopped a case, mid-pace, to found John, sometimes cuddled into his doctor or other times just being around John and asked how his day had been going. The first time it happened, John had been so surprised he thought something had happened and was almost sent into a panic. That was until he realized that Sherlock just missed John and wanted to convey his love.

It was slightly unnerving but John couldn't help revel in it.

It was another week until Lestrade sheepishly asked if Sherlock wanted to help solve a crime, with a fresh crime. It was John who hesitated more than Sherlock did.

The detective had single handedly gone through all the cold cases and that was fine but they were detached, just photos. There had been no blood, besides their own, spilled and there had been no opportunity really for Sherlock to go into a panic. This was too soon.

But, the cold cases had boosted the man's confidence faster than John thought they would and Sherlock knew it. John had looked at Sherlock and sent caution and worry with a hint of uncertainity. _"Are you sure?"_ and the detective had nodded with such optimism that John was forced to resign his protests.

When they had gotten to the crime scene, after John had pulled Lestrade aside, asking after the victim's hair color to which Greg responded that _she _was a _ginger._

Perfect.

Even though Sherlock didn't hesitate at any blonde victims in the cold case files they had been going through in the past weeks, John wasn't keen on testing Sherlock's tentative relationship with crime on his first official day back.

John ventured away from the DI after confirming other minor details that worried him to find Sherlock at the entrance of the house, while people bustled around him, seemingly ignoring the still detective.

He walked straight up to Sherlock and gripped the man's hand in his own and squeezed with gentle force. The point of contact buzzed with warmth and John had sent confidence, courage and relaxation. _"You are fine. You can do this."_

Sherlock had looked back at John with a hint of fear but confidence that had John smiling brightly. The doctor had squeezed one last time before shooing the detective further into the house. Sherlock had smiled and tore through the front door and into the confines of something he had once feared.

John can hear the man demanding and yelling and followed him with a happy expression.

That was the start of the case named "The Severed Feet Slasher."

That, coincidentally, was the first case that John had wrote about in his blog since being back and was subsequently the first active case that Sherlock had participated in.

Both took to their jobs like one took to riding a bicycle they hadn't ridden for years. With self-confidence and sentimental pinning.

They've been going to crime scenes ever since.

* * *

><p>John turns another corner, he is now only a street away from home, when a black sedan pulls him out of his deep thought and memories.<p>

"Great." John mutters to himself with a sigh.

The sedan creeps towards him and John feels a sudden, unexplainable uneasy vibrate through his emotions.

He scans the immediate area, searching for threats. Instead, he finds Mycroft's caramel and chocolate smell and deflates his panic. The sedan stops on the street in front of the doctor and John can feel Mycroft's fast but patient thoughts.

The two of them have a tentative friendship at the moment. John had apologized, a long time ago, about the day of his return, for crippling Mycroft with emotions and, in turn, Mycroft had apologize, quite sincerely according to his mental thoughts, for deceiving John and manipulating the both of them. They had parted ways and John hasn't really talked to Mycroft since, other than polite greetings when the politician would visit Sherlock at Baker Street.

So, he is slightly cautious of willingly getting into the car. Not to mention that he has had really bad experiences with getting into the car with Mycroft. Mycroft basically threatened to use him as the government's weapon that one time.

However, Mycroft sends a budding thought of impatience and the car door opens with the greatest hint. John walks over and warily gets in. As he settles down, he sends annoyance and frustration, their code for Mycroft, through the link to Sherlock, and then a sense of bemusement.

_"Mycroft?"_

Sherlock responds mentally with the same tone of bemusement and even a slight bit of worry. The detective is all to aware of Mycroft's car kidnappings and where they lead.

John just sends happiness and safety. _"Yes, I'm fine." _

The doctor settles into the leather backseat, listening to the short grumbling coming from the detective about his meddling older brother and John can't help being amused.

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak but John beats him too it, "You are to take me home within the next twenty minutes." Mycroft's eyebrow rises and he looks at John with slight confusion.

"The last time I was in this car with shopping, you intended to use me as a lab rat and your brother had to rescue me. AND, I had to get the shopping again because it got left in the back seat."

Instead of a closed off, defensive feeling, that John was mildly worried he might have gotten, Mycroft lets out an honest to god chuckle and amusement filters out from the elder Holmes's mind.

_"Fair enough." _

The thought is easy going and there is no hint of malice, in fact, Mycroft's mind holds no open hostility or defensive measure at all, just content friendliness.

It's extremely off-putting to tell the truth.

John doesn't speak for a whole minute because of Mycroft's good, and even more telling easily identified, good mood.

He almost asks him about what sort of antics Greg and the politician had gotten up to because there was really no reason for his good mood.

"Greg and I are doing just fine, John." Mycroft says drily, reading the doctor's puzzled expression and John startles. He hates when the man does that. "He is, yes, one of many reasons for my blithe mood."

Blithe, there's the Mycroft he knows and doesn't love.

John decides that finding out why Mycroft is happy and not hiding it like he normally does is making his head hurt so he just lets it go.

"What do you want?" John says rather warily. He hopes this isn't like the time he had to read that blue-sleeved man's mind and ended up incarcerating him. John would very much not ruin the timid association with Mycroft.

"John, must you always assume the worst of me?" Mycroft asks blankly, but John can sense the bit of irritation in Mycroft's mind.

Still, John can only think of one answer to that question and it's two words, 'Well, yes.'

He's really needs to learn how to keep blank expressions.

"Regardless, I merely required your presence for a chat." Mycroft says, waving a hand dismissively.

"Mycroft, how many times do I have to tell you? I have a phone, you know this, you gave it to me." John sighs exasperated, running a hand through his hand.

"Yes. I'm well aware of your technologies, John. Maybe I missed your extremely pleasant behavior." Mycroft says dryly while one of his hands dust a piece of non-existant lint of his pristine trousers.

John knows its an insult but he can't help but bark a laugh at it. It seems like Mycroft's unsettling, happy behavior from before has either diminished or he's internalized it. Either way, John is grateful so he lets the insult slide.

"Yes, okay. Really, Mycroft, if this milk spoils..." John says, leaving the last part of the sentence hanging, hoping that the politician will get to the bleeding point already.

"I just wanted to thank you." Mycroft's words come out in a sort of rush, restless like, and they completely blindside the doctor.

"What?" is John's elegant response. He's face is a puzzled mess, he doesn't know if Mycroft is be facetious or if he is really there to thank John. Based off the nervous tension that the older man is projecting, John likes to think that Mycroft actually meant what he said.

_"My gratitude, John, honestly." _When the thought comes out of Mycroft's mind, John is forced to look at the man's haughty, 'you're an idiot' expression that is scarily similar to the one Sherlock sometimes wears.

"Your gratitude?" John repeats, mostly because his words are working because he is too busy wracking through his brain trying to find any time where he's heard the man express gratitude.

Mycroft sighs with slight vexation and he says the next words as if he's speaking to a five year old. "Yes, I'm grateful that you decided to go along with hunting down Moriarty, even though it pained you to do so."

_It still pains me. _Is John's first thought before he even registers the words of the rest of the statement. He snorts shortly at the choice of words, 'decided to go along..' like John had an actual choice in the matter. He's about to say his two cents worth when he feels the tense shame and guilt being projected, (and a part of John wonders briefly why Mycroft's barriers are so open nowadays) from the older man's mind.

"Mycroft," John starts, his voice gentle and warm, soothing, but the man holds his hand up before the blogger can continue.

"I know I apologized already but I never did thank you. I perhaps was a little wrong in forcing you into the situation but I'm very grateful that you agreed." The politician states and his words are sincere and well thought out, like he had talk about them before.

"You've been talking to Greg." John snorts once he figures it out, his smug eyes finding Mycroft's shifting body.

"That is...irrelevant."Mycroft stammers out before looking straight back at the doctor, as if daring him to contradict.

Which means yes, John thinks, and huffs a laugh.

"It also has come to my attention," Mycroft starts but John interrupts that as, 'Greg has made me aware', "That I have never apologized for my flippant behavior the day we returned. I'm afraid I handled that really poorly." The politician finishes glaring at John as if he heard the part about Greg.

John just sighs with wariness. He can feel Mycroft's thoughts and feelings brush against his mind and knows the honesty behind the older man's words.

And in truth, John had forgiven the man a while ago. Yes, he's still bitter and still recovering from the traumatic experiences, on his and Sherlock's side, but he knows why the elder Holmes did it.

He was protecting England and in turn his brother. John knew that then and he respects that know, even if it fucked the both of them up.

"Mycroft, we've been through this," John wearily says. "Both of our nerves and emotions were on edge that day. I've already apologized for my behavior that day and I don't think any more reason for us to dwell on it any longer. What's done is done."

And that, John thinks, is that.

The doctor sends the older man and easy smile and Mycroft lips quirk as his visibly deflates with relief. John senses that Mycroft had been genuinely worried that John had been irreversibly mad at him.

And that sends John reeling, the fact that Mycroft likes John and cares about what the doctor thinks.

For a second, he muses that Greg is good for Mycroft and his, well previously, emotionally stunted mind.

John glances out the window as they pull up to Baker Street, having taken the long way around, via all of London.

He smiles a silly smile at returning home before looking over at Mycroft.

"It's been a pleasure, always." John says kindly but with a bit of sarcasm that has the politician scowling. He gathers up his groceries and grabs the handle, intending to let himself out.

_"John, wait."_

John lets go of the handle in surprise at the force and timidness of the thought.

Really, this entire situation has John reeling with shock and unappetizing new feelings for the older man. He almost feels...connected with him.

John resists the urge to spit on that thought.

"I also wanted to thank you for helping Sherlock." Mycroft's usual demanding voice, is whispered.

Of all the things that Mycroft could have potentially said, this was literally the last thing John would have ever expected. He gapes like a fish for awhile, trying to find something to say.

"My brother, as you know, disintegrates with stagnation and I don't know," John snorts at this admission earning him a glare, "what would have happened if he didn't start to do something with his mind again. I don't know how he would have coped he hadn't started to take his little projects again." Mycroft finishes stronger than he had begin and in such a rush of words that John describes as a ramble, or something close to one.

He holds up a hand before the man can continue his shocking gratitude.

"Mycroft," He begins, holding the older man's gaze, willing him to understand, "Of all the things you could possibly thank me for, this is not it. This was something that had to be done because Sherlock needed it." John says this kindly but with conviction.

"Regardless, Doctor, you have my gratitude." Mycroft responds just as steadily but with a smile.

John nods with an accepted tilt of his head before saying, "Don't say that too much, Mycroft or I might consider that an indebted statement."

"If you do, you would be sorely mistaken." Mycroft straightens and just like that, the last five minutes or really the entire car ride seem like a foreign thing to John as Mycroft's behavior returns to its normal blank and snobbish stance.

John just chuckles at the familiarity and gather his shopping (again), bidding Mycroft a good evening and thanks for the ride.

He shuts the door and intends to head towards the front door when he hears the whirring of the window being brought down.

"You know, John. You do have a very indispensable array of skills-" The politician says, his voice rather silky with a sort of professional seduction.

"Not a chance, Mycroft." John laughs out right, "I'm definitely not working for you."

"Pity." Is all the older man says as he scoots back, puts up the window and motions for the driver to pull the sedan away. John watches as the car turns onto another street and chuckles at the man's antics.

He turns back towards the door and looks up to the curtain-free windows of the flat. Sherlock stands there staring down at him and the doctor can feel a sense of worry but mostly relief coming through the link.

The doctor just smiles and opens the door to 221B Baker Street.


	7. Chapter 7: A Familiar Face Returns

I know that some people are wondering about John's healing, and don't worry, things are going to happen that are going to trigger John's panic.

This is a weirdly done Chapter, sorry.

Squee

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>John has stopped counting how much time passes, now that their lives seem to be getting back on track.<p>

Some days, it feels like John had never left.

Well almost.

There are few major changes that still has John reeling sometimes. The first of which, revolves around Sherlock.

The detective had already shown his priorities during cases previously when he would sometimes find John and snuggle up to the doctor, sometimes against his side, other times putting his head in the blogger's lap while John reads or watches telly. He had a penchant to want to be near John even when he would normally have been solely focused on a case.

It's Sherlock learning his lesson, not that he had a lesson to learn in the first place. It was John, after all, who had faked his death which resulted in a three month stint of misery for the both of them. In spite of that, it seemed like Sherlock knows now how to appreciate and not take advantage of John's presence. He knows what its like to live without John and he doesn't want to waste the moments he has.

If its a conscious or subconscious decision, John doesn't know but he appreciates the extra cuddles nonetheless.

In addition to the snuggles, there's another major change in their daily lives, this one mostly involves John. Firstly, John, since he's been back, has been far more liberal about the use of his gift. He doesn't hesitate to scan strangers heads now, his curiosity and general self-preservation kicking in. John doesn't really have a solid reason and it goes against the rules he set for himself, but ever since getting rid of Moriarty and reuniting with Sherlock, his rules don't seem that important anymore. He still follows them, and sees a reason for them but he just tends to break them a little bit more often than not. However, in all honesty, its really only in cases of those he's familiar with and if Sherlock is in danger.

Another change that's happened with John's gift is that the connection between the detective and his doctor is never turned off. Ever.

Inn the beginning, when John's return was still fresh, Sherlock and John would panic if they couldn't see each other physically, and John would just keep the link open, constantly connected to Sherlock to make it easy for the detective to reassure himself that John is alive and not a hallucination.

Really, its just become comfortable now and its been an unspoken arrangement to keep it that way. It's another way for the two of them to be close and reassured even if one of them is across London. Sherlock's mind is put at rest when he feels the brushing and poking in his head and John is grateful to have the random thoughts sent into his brain at random points of the day.

And it's not like its that difficult either, considering that John could hear the detective projected thoughts while he was all over the world.

The last major change to their lives, post-hiatus, is John's job.

After Sherlock had gone back to officially taking cases, started to go to more crime scenes and even started up his blog again thus giving him more private clients, John finds himself with a lot of time on his hands.

Not that he was constantly busy before or anything.

Before Sherlock went detective again, there was this unvoiced consensus between Mycroft and John that the latter wouldn't return to work until Sherlock was better. John had agreed because at that point, John couldn't walk to Speedy's at the bottom of their building, without Sherlock going into a small panic attack.

How was he supposed to get a job across London?

It was convenient and John obliged because he would do anything for Sherlock and Mycroft paid that bills because he felt it was the least he could do for John being dead and all. The politician is taking his apologies and remorse very seriously.

So, three months after his return, John thinks that Sherlock is better, with his cases and mysteries and John can go back to be a doctor.

He immediatly called Sarah up, not that the woman was happy to hear from John. Oh, happy he was alive yes, not happy that he had died and then was not dead. She was not happy with the process and they were full up, or so she said, with no need for locum work.

He had then spent a day in a sulk because he had no job to speak of and he didn't know what to do with his life.

A part of him was briefly considering taking Mycroft's offer of a job but the doctor had shuddered at the thought.

No, he needed to find a job himself.

However, fate wasn't really on his side because Mycroft had, in fact, given him a job in the end, kind of.

One day, the politician had come to Baker Street with his umbrella in one hand and a thick folder in the other.

He handed John the folder and inside was a hiring packet for a local hospital that wasn't too far from Baker Street. This hospital was looking for a clinic doctor and the pay was phenomenal.

John had been very bitter when he had to turn it down, telling Mycroft that hospital clinics were much stricter in their hours and commitment policies. It would be impossible to maintain a job there and still be able to dash off when Sherlock needed him.

Mycroft had said nothing and instead pulled out another piece of paper, this time from his suit jacket and handed it to John. John had taken the paper warily before reading it.

On it, and the doctor didn't even know this was possible, there was an agreed upon arrangement with the head of the clinic to allow John leave whenever it was necessary, whether it was the day of or in the middle of his shift.

It was signed by the Ministry of Defense.

Oh great, his new employers are going to think he's James Bond or something.

With that piece of paper, it wasn't like John could refuse really. It sounded so perfect, he could follow Sherlock and still have a job. He had to say yes and in doing so, he started the next day.

His new job is amazing. His boss, a Stan Munder, is nice and understanding, despite John weird connection with the government, to which Stan thinks that John in not, in fact, James Bond but a double agent that needs to hide from his mother country and is somehow a trained doctor.

John had laughed when he heard this come from the man's mind but let him think it, John would let the man think he was the Queen herself, if that allows John to be able to be there when Sherlock calls.

He did, however, have to put some ground rules down for the detective. Just because they had a 'get-out-of-work-free' card didn't mean they could abuse it. There were honest people working at that clinic and they did not deserve to be jerked around. He made Sherlock understand that it was for emergencies only, they had then spent a half an hour talking about what constituted as an emergency.

John made it very clear that if he had to come home to send a text or smell the milk to see if it spoiled he would not be happy and he would refuse to leave work the next time around, regardless on the emergency state or not.

It's a tribute to Sherlock's mental state and priorities because he eventually agreed, and so far, John hasn't had to dash off as often as he used to.

So the bottom line is, John's got a fancy new job now and Sherlock's taking private and NSY cases and it seems like everything is finally returning to normal.

Except, John has this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, nowadays, that something is going to happen. This ominous feeling that something bad is coming that he should be preparing for but he has no idea what.

This feeling doesn't go away for a whole week until one day, his ominous prediction turns from hanky feeling to full out truth in the course of fifteen minutes.

* * *

><p>Its been a nice, easy day. Mostly just colds and sinus infections coming through John's examination room. His patients are lovely and they listen to John's advice. His co-workers are nice and even friendlier than before and he finds himself actually fitting in. He's gone to the pub with them once or twice, when Sherlock hasn't demanded his attention, and he finds himself with a few more friends.<p>

His boss, Stan, who despite thinking that John is some conspiracy double agent, accepts John and his crazy partner. He is this easy going, even funny guy who John respects. All in all, his job is a complete 180 from Sarah's clinic and he can't help thinking that he got the better end of the deal.

John feels like a real doctor again, after five months of stagnation.

He settles down behind his desk, his nice, sleek permanent desk, (yes he has a desk to call his own and he makes a mental note to thank Mycroft, again, for this job), to catch up on paperwork before his last patient comes in, which isn't for another half hour. Nobody should be bothering him and he can get all his charting down for the day if he concentrates.

As he fills the papers out, the mental connection buzzes deep with a sudden force, causing John to pause briefly and listen to Sherlock's scientific garble for a minute or so, beaming at his detective's curiosity. Usually, throughout his day he gets random thoughts and feelings from Sherlock, almost like the detective isn't really aware he's doing so, because he's thoughts are random and fast. He smiles at Sherlock's seemingly productive experiment that the detective is thinking about and continues with his paperwork.

His mind registers footsteps outside his office, boots clanking down the hall loudly but John doesn't really pay attention, there are plenty of patients and other doctors in this clinic, coming in and out all the time.

It isn't until his door opens that John notices something might be wrong.

His office door is pushed open violently, hitting the wall with a giant thud. John is already halfway out of his chair, his eyes and hands reaching for his gun that he keeps in his drawer.

"Not so fast, Doctor." A slimly, deep voice speaks with terrifying clarity and familiarity that has John stopping in his tracks. He doesn't want to look at the intruder, he knows the voice and he knows what horror he will see when he looks up.

"Sit." The man says and John lets his hand fall and sinks back into his chair, forcing himself to look up.

Moran.

John is almost paralyzed with panic and anxiety. The sniper smirks and walks further into John's office. Shutting the door behind him and locking it, effectively paralyzing John even more. It isn't John sees the man come closer that he notices the gun, hanging limply at the sniper's side.

John stares at the man, and notices that Moran does not look good. He's a little thinner, gaunt, but not any less muscular. He's grown a beard and his blonde hair is a tad longer but his face remains much the same. Except his eyes, those are even crazier and brighter than John remembers.

And John can only feel his panic, his fear and pain from the last time he had saw this man, when he had put the man to sleep after killing his boss.

All in all, this isn't a stop for tea and a chat.

He tries to swallow some of his fear and panic and latches onto the man's mind, trying to find answers. What's Moran doing here? How did he escape? Why didn't John know he had escaped?

Nothing. There is nothing in the link and that is happening far too often for John's liking, in all truth. John starts to dig deeper into Moran's head, maybe send some calming thoughts so John can get the advantage.

"Stop." Moran commands, stopping John briefly, causing the doctor to look at the man. The sniper, shaking his blonde hair out of his eyes, moves forward threateningly in John's direction. The telepath doesn't stop, he needs to know what is going on so he can warn Sherlock and in turn Mycroft.

John doesn't even really see Moran move, one minute the sniper is a few feet away, the desk still separating the two of them, and the next, the sniper has his gun, whacking John across the face, with one hand on the desk, putting his weight there to lean over it to reach John. The doctor would have been impressed with the force of the hit considering the awkward positioning if he wasn't so busy trying to remain in his chair and not cry out from pain.

Needless to say, John pulls out of Moran's mind immediately.

And right into the connection with Sherlock. He sends panic and fear and helplessness into the link, something he should have done from the beginning but Moran's appearance through him for a loop.

_"John." _

Sherlock responds immediately but John becomes sidetracked when Moran starts to talk.

"You are very naive, soldier, if you think that working with Jim didn't prepare me, mentally." The sniper deadpans, no emotion filters through and John tries to keep his breathing in check. It explains a lot, Moran silence is a shield that hides his thoughts from John's intrusions.

And that thought doesn't reassure John whatsoever.

He sends more panic, fear, anxiety, helplessness into the bond with Sherlock, hoping that the detective understands that he needs help.

_"John? What's going on?" _

John watches as Moran moves around the desk to stand to the side of John. The doctor doesn't move, partly because he's waiting and partly because he can't really, his mind and his memories threatening to send him back to Italy and watching the blade slide out of his side again and again.

"I have to say, you are looking better than the last time I saw you." Moran says, strolling behind John, bringing his gun up to John's shoulders, dragging the muzzle against his tense back, and then going back the other way, back and forth, teasing the doctor. John doesn't know what is going on or how to respond to this obvious threat.

He is entirely useless and he curses himself for letting this man get to him. Moriarty is dead, this man is no where near as powerful as Moriarty and he doesn't get to use John like this.

So, John sends more helplessness into the bond and just repeats 'Get Mycroft. Get Mycroft.' in his head over and over, while he follows the gun's physical presence on his body. Moran pokes him so hard, just below his neck, that John is forced to lurch forward slightly.

"What do you want, Moran?" John asks, fed up with this man's scare tactics, all the while thinking fear and pain and, 'Get Mycroft. Get Mycroft."

_"Mycroft? I don't understand, Why?" _Sherlock's thoughts respond and John idly wonders where he got the 'Get Mycroft' part from, he didn't use the code but before he can worry about it, Moran has his fist in John's hair and pulls the doctor's head back violently.

John has to scramble for purchase to prevent from being pulled out of his chair as emotions flow through his brain. The doctor's body goes tense and its just like before, the first time John had met Moran.

The connection is brutal but still no thoughts come from the sniper, they all seem to be coming from John. John's own panic, his own fear, amplified in his brain as Moran's grip tightens.

"What. Do. You. Want?" John repeats, this time through gritted teeth and a nasty scowl on his face. He's trying to push his own thoughts down but its not working, Moran's touch seems to act as a amplifier.

The panic, fear and horror threaten to drown him.

"I want you to die of course." The man says into his ear, John can feel the heavy puffs of exhales against his earlobe and he jerks his head away, causing Moran to let go and as he does, John's head explodes. He hasn't reacted this badly to broken connection since, well the first time Moran had tortured him.

The pain is almost as unbearable as John remembers it.

"Why?" John bites out, pushing the pain and the anxiety down and away so he can focus.

All the while, he can't help but thinking, wasn't Moran just an employee?

There's a hand on John's head, pushing his skull down so it smashes into the desk and John's head reels with pain. He brings a hand up to his forehead as if trying to hold the pain in and he is suddenly so light headed that he almost falls out of the chair. He cries out as the connection is cut off again making his probable concussion even worse.

A voice next to his ear again makes the doctor cringe away, not wanting to be touch by the vicious man's bare skin. "You know why." The voice is quiet but it's still just as malicious and menacing, and John winces.

_"John. John. John." _

John hears Sherlock as he feels Moran backing up, away from him and that has John sighing in relief. He wants to respond to Sherlock's frantic thoughts, he must be bleeding into the connection again, but he is forced to spend a minute resting his head on the desk, redoubling his efforts to condition himself to Moran's connection breaks.

He will blackout if Moran keeps touching him.

His head hurts and he's pretty sure his nose is bleeding and Sherlock keeps calling for him but John doesn't move, until Moran's voice has him tensing again.

"You are so weak." The voice spits with amusement, like he expected a better fight. And maybe John should be fighting better, but god his head hurts and he feels like if he stands he's going to fall over.

He's rusty and maybe he is a bit weak. He's been spending too much time relying on his mental powers instead of his physical ones. Something that will change when, if, John gets out of here.

Before he can think about fighting back, however, his chair is whipped around and he is forced to face the body of still very pissed off ex-henchman. The man's eyes are crazier than before and the sniper's body is hovering over him uncomfortably.

This time, he sees the hit coming, but he still can't do anything about it, he doesn't even have the energy to lift his arms up to block it. The butt of the pistol hits him across the face, sending pain, radiating up and down his face and through his skull.

Yeah, he definitely has a concussion now.

If he thought the force was impressive before, that had nothing on this hit. John is forced out of his chair because of the sheer power and falls to the floor.

He lands on the tile with a muffled thud, jolting his bad shoulder, and immediately brings a hand up to his face, wincing as the black eye starts to form. He rolls onto his hands and knees, intending to crawl away.

"Where are you going, Weakling?" Moran says angrily, through gritted teeth and kicks a brutal punt into John's mid-section, making the doctor fall flat onto his face with an oomph and sharp jolt of pain as he connects again with the flooring.

John, through his pained haze, realizes how this situation is going to end, he knows the danger he's in and he knows the pain that will come. Despite Moran calling him a weakling, he needs to do something, anything to get out of this situation. He needs to find a way to get Sherlock to hurry up or fight the man himself. And considering that he's having problems just getting onto his hands and knees, the latter option doesn't seem very likely at this moment.

Through the pain in John's head and face and torso, he tries to send more panic into the link but he doesn't know how strong it is, he just hopes that Sherlock is already working on it.

_"John. I'm coming, I'm getting Mycroft. Just hang on." _

John feels the relief wash over him as he tries to crawl away again but its short lived as he feels another kick to his ribs, lifting him up with the strength of it before gravity viciously pulls him down to the floor again.

This is getting tiresome and exhausting and Moran is going to beat him to death before anybody gets here, time for Plan B. Distract, until Sherlock can get here.

"Why do you care anyway?" John wheezes as he wraps one hand around his torso, holding onto his hurting ribs. "He obviously didn't care about you."

Moran lets out a growl and grabs John's hair, pulling the doctor to his knees. John grunts and winces at the strain on his ribs but his hands fly up to grip the hand holding his hair as he tries to wriggle free of the man's hold, despite the pain of his entire body.

Once John's bare hands connect with Moran's skin, John starts mentally screaming. His eyes glaze over but his mind is a mess of pain and fear and horror. He doesn't get images yet, but all of the emotions that he's been feeling for the last however many minutes are suddenly magnified and made ten times worse. He wishes he could scream and writhe but he is frozen still.

"You know nothing!" Moran spits into John's face, seemingly not aware of the damage the man is doing. John, even though he's paralyzed by the pain and terror, wonders on a separate part of his brain, if Moran has a gift too.

If Moran does, the sniper must not be aware of it, otherwise he would be using it more than he already is.

He is at the mercy of this lunatic and John can't think, through the endless pain and his mental screaming and how his ribs just _hurt_ and his face too. He wants it to be over. He tries to push the debilitating thoughts away, down, anything, so he can think, so he can organize a thought.

No such thing happens. Instead, John screams internally for Mycroft, for Sherlock for anybody that can help him because he can't seem to help himself. He just wants Moran to let go.

The pain suddenly becomes sharper and it triggers memories, specifically a memory from Italy, Moran sliding the knife out of John's side and then wiping the blood off.

John whimpers slightly as the memory starts to morph into others.

John tenses against Moran's grips and tries to shake his head but the sniper's grip doesn't budge.

A sudden mantra exists in John's head, 'Get Mycroft. Mycroft will know what to do. Get Mycroft.'

John doesn't even know why Mycroft, maybe because the politician was there the last time Moran was around or maybe because John is pretty sure Mycroft was in charge of the man's imprisonment. Either way, something in John's mind is trying to tell him something. He just needs this all to stop, and Mycroft can do that.

_"I know, John. Just hang in there." _

Sherlock's thoughts are almost a direct mirror of the panic and fear that John is feeling except the detective's are laced with worry, and less intense.

On a separate note, John is starting to feel woozy from the onslaught and he wonders if he is going to pass out from the continuous stream of terror.

Moran's hand in his hair tightens causing John to let out another stream of internal screams and the sniper moves forward, towards the front of John's desk. His grip forces John to be dragged along by his knees, something that is not conducive to his ribs or his head.

He needs to do something, anything to make this stop, make it all stop.

_"Just hang on, John. We are coming." _

The thought gives John hope and with that a sort of strength, he pushes the internal pain down slightly, enough to bit out a question.

"How did you get passed Mycroft's prison?" The question isn't the one John was originally going to ask but its out there before John can stop it. He goes with it and his face contorts in pain. He feels Moran stop abruptly and looks up to see a slight wave of nostalgia float across the man's face.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." Moran says, a bit creepily, actually. "His hold is not as powerful as you think." is all Moran says, to John's disappointment, but he does throws the doctor forward with sudden force. The connection breaks as John's arms flail, one arm moving immediately to his torso while the other tries to catch himself. Neither one make it to their destination, instead, he lands face first on the tiled floor right in front of his desk. He bits his lip through the pain and hastily moves to sit up, not wanting to be a vulnerable target on the floor.

His brain is throbbing with residual pain from the broken link but he can't help but be thankful that Moran isn't touching him anymore.

_"John." _

The doctor can't respond to the detective right at the moment, his head is still reeling with the intensity of the pain that's still lingering. His body just hurts and the concussion is making him feel dizzy and light headed.

Giant, wheezing exhales break the silence in the room and it takes a bit for John to realize they are coming from him. Then, he realizes that he's having a mini-panic attack and isn't that lovely. His emotions are all over the place, his fear of potentially dying and knowing the fact that Moran is going to drag it out, his panic because he didn't think this would happen, he didn't think he would see Moran again and now he's back and what does that mean, besides his death?

All of these amplified because of Moran's touch and John thinks he's going to blackout for sure if he can't get himself under control.

He leans against the front of his desk, a hand wrapped around his bruised, possible cracked ribs and his chest heaving, trying to get under control.

"Why are you here?" John starts, still trying to distract, mostly trying to keep Moran from touching him. He can't deal with another connection like that. Moran doesn't say anything, he just fiddles with his gun, that he had grabbed from jacket pocket, his eyebrows raised.

"I mean," John starts again, "Are you picking up where Moriarty left off?" As the doctor finishes his question, he turns to spit out a blob of blood, that had been rolling around in his mouth, onto the floor beside him. Moran doesn't still doesn't say anything but there is a flicker of emotion across his face that John doesn't really recognized but he takes a chance anyway.

"You are, aren't you?" The doctor says mockingly, raising his eyebrows in surprise, "That's so...cute."

John doesn't know where he got this idea that it's okay to mock madman with guns and fists of steel, considering that just seconds ago he was willing to do anything to stop Moran from getting closer. Why doesn't his brain to mouth filter always leave him in dire situations like this?

His mind is like lava and the rest of his body feels likes its on fire and when Moran comes over to pistol whip John's mocking face, the doctor is sort of relieved that man doesn't touch him again.

It feels sort of wrong to the doctor to be immensely grateful for that.

However, John can't help feeling that's he's missing something, somehow. Why hasn't Moran just killed him already? Surely, he's beat the crap out of him enough by now.

The man's harboring some resentment, John knows, but this is getting ridiculous.

They don't talk for another full minute and John likes the respite, his gets his breathing under control and wills his head to push the pain away for now.

After nothing happens, John says, "I'm bored now."

It's such a Sherlock thing to say and John vaguely feels pride at how even his tone is, despite the blood coming out of his nose.

"In a hurry to die, weakling?" Moran laughs quietly, gripping his gun with a clenching hand.

"Just get it over with." John states in a huff of annoyance, looking up a the sniper, who is leaning against his closed office door.

God, how long has he been here? He vaguely wonders. How come anyone hasn't noticed that John is being practically beaten to death in a public building?

"Not yet." Moran's slimly voice states and it pulls John out of his questioning mind.

"Not yet?" John repeats stupidly, his gaze landing on Moran's with bewilderment, the soldier's body already tensing in preparation.

"I intend to make you suffer." And John recognizes this situation for what it is, a fear tactic and all John can think, from his position on the ground, leaning against his new job's desk, is 'Damn, him.'

Suddenly, Moran straightens and cocks his gun, pointing it right at John. The soldier doesn't make any attempts to move, the man had just told him he wasn't going to kill him just yet. However, that doesn't mean John doesn't flinch when the shot goes off, an inch to the left from where John's head is resting against the wood.

John just gazes up at the man, staring stupidly at him. Moran just nods threateningly, pockets his gun and opens the door before exiting, and John can hear the man whistling down the hall.

John, who had started forward once the gun had gone off, just leans back so that his entire body is resting against the wood again, his legs sprawled out in front of him.

"Huh." John says out loud to the empty office and he lets his gaze blur unseeingly, the fear, pain and terror still firmly bouncing around in his mind. He just sits there, for god knows how long, stunned and in pain.

He doesn't get up, he doesn't register Sherlock's mental callings, he doesn't hear the footsteps coming down the hall. He just lets himself become numb.

* * *

><p>There is a sudden, shadow looming over him and, if John had the energy, he would have flinched violently and with his whole body but, as it is, all he is able to accomplish is a faint wince and lean away from the ominous shape.<p>

"John." The baritone says, and John almost weeps with relief. Sherlock's voice cuts through the oppressive silence and John forces himself to look up. Sherlock's eyes stare back at him with such concern and worry and John feels internally grief-stricken.

"Hey." He says almost incoherently. He's body shaking and trembling, almost going numb with relief and pain at the same time. Despite this, he still quirks his lips up in a smile for Sherlock.

To which the detective doesn't return. Damn him.

_"Are you alright?" _The detective's eyes are full of concern that has John reaching a hand to the man's cheek. The tactile bond is warm, so warm and reassuring and it doesn't hurt like Moran's did and he just wants to hold onto the warmth for the rest of his life.

_"John, you're projecting."_

John's answer to that is, 'Really,' but he doesn't voice it. He doesn't even really care, he can feel Sherlock's hands roaming his body, looking for injuries and John wonders slightly what he must look like. He can see the blood staining his shirt but he doesn't know what his face looks like. With his hand still on Sherlock face, he dig deep into the link and sees what Sherlock sees.

He's a _mess._ The area surrounding his eyes are blackened severely, with the right one closed up almost completely and John didn't even realize he couldn't see out of one eye until now. His face is splotchy with trickles of blood, especially coming from his nose. His jumper and doctor's coat are officially ruined, like he thought, stained with copious amounts of blood. His eyes though, that's what is the most alarming. They, well the one he can see anyway, is wide with fear and pain and no matter how John twists his expression, it still remains that way.

Eventually, he leaves Sherlock's mind and when he's done, he's isn't surprised at Sherlock's worry. He looks terrible and inches away from death.

He's not, or he doesn't think he is. He's in pain, yes but he hasn't been shot or anything. John realizes what's wrong with that statement as soon as he thinks it. He's been living with Sherlock to long if he associate death only with gunshots.

He sighs, not taking his hand off the detective who has now moved to John's face, turning it this way and that. When John's face is turned to the left, the doctor is able to see past Sherlock and is surprised to find more people in the surrounding area. He wasn't aware, until now, other people had even shown up.

It seems like a lot of people had heard the gun shot because John can see a group just outside his office door, mostly coworkers but their are a few patients. Inside the office holds far less people. He sees Lestrade talking to a bunch of unfamiliars, dressed in black, security of some sort, and Anthea. But that doesn't prepare him for when his eyes eventually settle upon Mycroft's body, who has his back to John, talking to Anthea.

Something snaps in John, and without warning, the man scrambling to get up. Pushing one hand against the tile flooring. He needs to get to Mycroft.

_"John. Stop." _Sherlock's voice are commanding, the genius's hands pushing gently against John's chest but the doctor doesn't, can't listen. All he can think is his mantra from before, 'Get Mycroft. Get Mycroft.'

He tries to get up again but Sherlock isn't having any of it.

"John. John! Stop. What are you doing?" The detective yells that last part, causing everyone in the room to look at them, not that John is aware of that fact.

He's too busy deciding distantly that he's in shock and should be getting looked at but 'Get Mycroft. Get Mycroft.' is bouncing around in his head and he can feel the panic coming back. What if Moran comes back? There are lot more people around this time, he could hurt one of them. His new coworkers he likes, Greg, Anthea, Mycroft, even Sherlock. Moran could hurt anyone of them. He's got to tell Mycroft, he was there too, in Italy. He'll know how to find the sniper. 'Get Mycroft.'

As his breathing picked up and the pain intensified, 'Get Mycroft.' repeated in his head, John has no choice to pass out. The black spots taking over and his brain shutting itself down from the panic. The last thing he hears is a deep baritone calling his name through the bond.

_"John." _

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, Sherlock is watching John's panic tear the doctor apart. He notices when Mycroft comes over to stand beside the two of them. He looks up at his brother in shock.<p>

"What happened Mycroft?" Sherlock asks in almost child-like wonder and for once in his life there is no malice, acid or any negative twists to Sherlock's tone.

The two Holmes watch as John tries to struggle against John's frantic movements, neither of them know what to do or how to handle a panicky John Watson.

"He's having a panic attack." Mycroft says, unhelpfully, to which Sherlock just sends him a glare before pushing a little harder to keep John in place.

A sudden brushing along Sherlock's mind has the detective going rigid. A faint, 'Get Mycroft.' said in John's voice enters his mind and the detective tenses.

"You heard that, I presume." Mycroft states, his voice even but his face twisted in shock.

"_You _heard that?" Sherlock asks incredulously. Other emotions start to assault the link between Sherlock and John but the detective doesn't let himself get sucked into the fearpanichorror. He feels John's breathing pick up and become shallower and before Sherlock can do anything, John goes slump in his arms. He calls for the man mentally but unconsciousness has already grabbed the doctor.

Sherlock stares for a few seconds in shocked silence before checking the man's pulse.

"That wasn't the first time you've heard that, based on your reaction." Mycroft says non-chalantly, trying to get his expressions and masks back into place, seemingly not worried about the beaten up, unconscious man in front of them.

"He did it earlier. It's how I knew to fetch you." Sherlock says distractedly but still listening, his eyes roving John's injured form. He only sees the glare Mycroft gives at the term, 'fetch' apparently not liken to be compared to a dog of some sort, out of the corner of his eye.

"I didn't know he could do that." Mycroft says, letting the 'fetch' comment go, hoping to get to the bottom of what is going on.

"He can't." Sherlock says quietly, turning his head to meet Mycroft's eyes. The two brother share a significant look before paramedics rush in and attend to the broken doctor.


	8. Chapter 8: Smells Like an Intervention

Continuing on,

Still no answers from Clarke this time around, but we are getting there.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and told me of my mistakes, usually I go back and fix them so I appreciate that.

Hope you are all still here!

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>John notices the beeping first, the rhythmic, high pitched <em>beep! beep! beep! <em>filling the room. He's a doctor, he knows what that means.

However, it does takes him a little longer to remember why the beeping belongs to him. Why is he here?

He's in a hospital, obviously, if the beeping didn't give it away the smell would have, along with the sounds of the nurses squeaking shoes that John can just barely hear. But why?

He lays still for moment, half worrying that any movement would jump start his brain into feeling the pain he must be in, assumes he's in because he's in a hospital bed, the sheets tell him that. He swims through his memories, trying to find a reason.

He remembers working, doing paperwork and then...

Oh, yeah, that's right.

John resists the urge to frantically struggle against his IV that he can feel embedded into his arm, the sheets are suddenly to tightly wrapped around him as the memories come back, not painful, just horrifying in their own right.

Moran.

He's alive and he's free. In London.

John instantly opens his eyes, half in an illogical panic, thinking that Moran could be there, in the room with him. All that meets him is blinding white. White walls, white sheets, white clothes, white furniture, everything is white and daunting but he doesn't feel any pain, there is usually pain when he comes into contact with this particular, white hospital setting. He shifts a bit, but he is only met with numbness. Usually, there is pain, boredom, and confusion.

He feels none of these.

The confusion's vanished once his memories caught up with him. The memories, getting the crap kicked out of him and Moran's taunts, rattling around in his brain with a vague haze, their pictures slightly fuzzy and intangible but John can remember, in clarifying, horrifying detail, how he was feeling. The delirious panic and mental pain that he was going through, along with the fear of Moran being alive and the helplessness that he could do nothing about it at the time.

He remembers it all and it takes every part of John, and help from the ridiculously good drugs he's on, to stop the emotions from surfacing with renewed vigor.

Instead, to distract himself more than anything, he moves his head slowly to his left. When he awoke, mere minutes ago, his mind subconsciously, while quelling his memories and emotions, had noticed the breathing sounds coming from his right and now he turns toward them.

He's extremely surprised to find it's Clarke, not his original assumption, Sherlock, who meets his gaze as the sergeant sits there patiently.

Clarke's deep green eyes stare back at him but neither of them talk and the man's face stays expressionless, waiting and watching.

And isn't that the zenith of Sherlock's trust. Putting his faith in someone and giving them the responsibility of looking over John, who had been in a vulnerable state, is not something a lot of people would have the opportunity to participate in.

There are few people that the detective trusts these days.

John feels suddenly very glad and grateful for Clarke, despite the fact that he still can't get a read on the man's mind.

In fact, John hasn't been able to get a read, even though he's tried multiple times over the past month or so. Nothing, nada zip.

He desperately wants to ask but there is no way to causally bring it up.

'So, I'm a telepath and you, mate, are completely silent. Care to explain?'

Yeah that's not really polite crime scene talk.

(Although, to be fair, running around with Sherlock these has taught John that there really isn't such a thing as polite crime scene talk.)

But with recent events with Moran, John is suddenly wary of Clarke's intentions. Moran's head was silent, he learned how to shield because he wasn't a good guy. What if Clarke's the same?

Is he shielding now? Or is he simply just mentally mute?

John snorts internally, mentally mute, its kind of got a ring to it.

He's on the good drugs.

Clarke remains impassive, watching John while his eyes scan the room, looking at the door every once and while, as if looking for changes or dangers. John wonders if its habit or if Sherlock had informed the Sergeant proper guarding procedure, because that's what Clarke is obviously doing, guarding John.

Neither of them say anything for a few minutes more and John, suddenly very curious, starts to find the silence oppressive.

"What are you silent?" The doctor blurts out, causing Clarke's gaze to come back to John's face and then produce a little frown.

"I'm sorry, Sir?" Clarke says and his face is laced with confusion, as if he doesn't know what John is talking about. "You need your rest, sir." Clarke adds dutifully, but still friendly. John sighs at Clarke's misunderstanding, he likes the young man, despite the fact that he could be an agent out to kill him, or worse, kill Sherlock.

John really needs to stop watching James Bond movies or at the very least add some different genres into his life. He's getting very paranoid.

Regardless, he shakes his head frantically, ignoring the very faint twinges of pain that are loosened in his head from enduring that movement and presses on, "No, no, why is your mind silent?" John asks again, this time bringing his hand, the one not trapped with snake like IV wires, up to tap at his head. His eyes are blazing with curiosity, or at least, John think they are, they could be half-lidded for all he knows.

Despite John's drug induced expression, the doctor braces himself for a brush off, or at the very least a condescending smile that means Clarke thinks the doctor's crazy or high on drugs, or both.

To be honest, John is a little bit both but Clarke doesn't need to know that.

However, what he does not expect, is for Clarke to jump to his feet. An abrupt, startling movement that knocks his chair back with clatter of plastic and tiling. John looks from the chair, his own face producing pure shock, to Clarke's face. The Sergeant's features are twisted with horror and fear.

John instantly brings his hands up, lurching forward a bit in an effort to calm the obviously distressed man. He's body tries to protest the movement, despite the numbness, but John doesn't pay attention.

"W-What did you say, sir?" Clarke stammers, and John can tell, he can see the internal dilemma happening in the man's mind.

Clarke doesn't know if he should run away, from the fear, from the obvious mentally repressed memories or if he should stay, like the good sergeant he is.

The young man's panic and fear are palpable and John can feel the tension in the room like a rubber band about to snap.

The doctor's own emotions have not been that far from the surface since the beginning as is and they are nowhere near as in control as they are normally. And that has John's breathing start to pick up, becoming slightly faster and shallower as he feels the tension latch onto him physically. He feels like he can taste the fear and the panic, like a physical presence on his tongue, or at least that's what it feel like.

If this is residual tension, then John can't even imagine what Clarke is feeling.

"What's going on, Clarke?" John asks, his face openly friendly and honest. All the while, his is forcing himself to calm down, trying to push the fear and the panic away. He takes slow, deep breaths and closes his eyes briefly.

"I uh, I don't know what you are talking about." Clarke says uncertainly, and the tension throbs like a heartbeat, pulsating against John.

"I'm one of the good guys." John says, smiling, at least trying to smile through the haze of drugs he's on. A small part of him tries to tell him that this isn't really the time for this conversation.

Oh well.

There is something niggling at the back of his mind and John can't figure it out. Something his brain is telling him that he should be aware of the situation and what is really going on, but John is solely focusing on Clarke and the poor boys' stance.

Clarke has now backed up against the far wall, he, having to have backed up, walking around the fallen chair, is now wringing his hands together with agitation and his eyes dart around with desperation. John thinks he's looking for a way out.

He eyes the door as he opens his mouth, to protest or respond, John will never know, because in that moment the door swings open dramatically and Sherlock strolls in, with a swish of his coat.

The look of relief on Clarke's face is distinctly full of relief, and, that too, layers the room with comforting tendrils, pushing and pulling the fear and pain into shadowy corners.

Something's going on here and John, whether its through subconscious denial or the drugs, can't put it together.

He's honestly too caught up in wondering whether or not he should be offended at how quickly Clarke bolts from the room, nearly checking Sherlock in the shoulder on his way out. If Sherlock hadn't turned sideways at the last moment, the consulting detective would have been on the floor because of Clarke's high-speed exit. Sherlock- slightly frazzled and that's something John never sees on him- watches the younger man run away, presumably continuing his pace down the hall and out of sight.

"Sergeant!" The DI shouts, and John doesn't even noticed Greg is there until now. He's standing right behind a still sideways Sherlock, and the DI's body is turning to follow Clarke. His face is an expression of surprise and irritation mixing in a weird way that makes John uncomfortable for some unfathomable reason.

John clears his throat, shaking away that last remnants of fear and panic, and says, "Its not his fault, I think I scared him."

That's kind of an understatement, John thinks to himself but doesn't say anything out loud.

Instead, he watches with a perverted comical sense of humor as the DI and the detective whip their heads in unison, as if they just noticed that John was awake.

Sherlock just smirks at the doctor's statement but Greg just looks even more confused.

The consulting detective dismisses Clarke's antics and saunters into the room before looking down at the fallen chair.

_"Clarke?" _

The thought is reassuring and for a minute, John had forgotten about the link with Sherlock. With Sherlock's thought, the link buzzes with bitterness, as if it's a tangible being that resents John for forgetting its existence, and John silently thanks whoever is looking out for him, because he has enough problems with this gift, it does not need to be sentient.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow when John doesn't answer right away but the doctor, having recognized Sherlock's happy thoughts at present, is just smiling, a huge grin plastered across his face as he looks at the genius.

Sherlock laughs with a low chuckle and in one swift movement, grabs the back of the chair from the ground and brings it over to John's bedside before sitting and grabbing the doctor's hand.

The tactile connection opens up with such familiarity and warmth that John thinks he's going to explode from happiness.

"Hi." John breathes goofily, his face somewhat hurting from how big his grin is. Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up even further in astonishment.

It's like a flip has been switched. Before, when he was talking to Clarke, he could maintain a thought process and know what questions he needed to ask, but now, with the connection open with warmth and Sherlock presence there and comforting, its like his brain's become fuzzier, hazy and his thoughts are not connecting as well as they have been or really should be.

This is interesting if not completely alarming.

"How are you feeilng, John?" The genius asks out loud with a smug expression and John knows, somehow he can just tell that Sherlock knows the extent of the painkillers effects.

In other words, Sherlock knows that John is high.

But, and really in spite of the genius, John doesn't stop himself from being redundant. "I feel good." He says dreamily, internally writhing with happiness because of Sherlock's presence in his mind. John can hear a faint laugh come from the Lestrade but John doesn't look away from his boyfriend.

_"I bet you do." _The thought is full of amusement and it makes John smile as he sends clumsy feelings of hazy love, happiness, calm and contentment through the link. They are jumbled and they somehow emit in a rush, fumbling over one another. And John doesn't even know that is a possibility.

He gets distracted from his musings by Sherlock's chuckle that John instinctively mimics in his own voice.

"Why should I not be following my Sergeant, who's job was to watch over you." Lestrade says suddenly, interrupting whatever is going on between John and Sherlock. The doctor can feel the worry and the slight regret coming from the DI and he hears an _"As amusing as it is,"_ float out from Lestrade twisting in the open air, and for a second, John thinks he can see a physical representation of the thought.

"I'm so high." John whispers to the surprise of Lestrade and Sherlock, who share a look between the two of them. Meanwhile, John continues to look towards the space that Lestrade's thought use to be, letting his mind wander. Until, Sherlock snaps a finger in front of John, getting his attention back.

_"Focus, John. What happened to Clarke?" _There is slight impatience but John can feel the buried gaiety beneath it.

John lists his head towards Sherlock and smiles, but he doesn't open his mouth.

_"What did you two talk about?"_

Sherlock pushes, sending cold, hard thoughts into John's mind, trying to sober the man. All John does is shiver slightly and try to take his hand back, but Sherlock hangs on tighter.

"That's unfair." John pouts slightly, struggling weakly against Sherlock's iron-clad grip.

_"John." _

Sherlock's thought is all demand and John stops his struggling with a sigh, instead, he gives a glare (that is more adorable than menacing) and tries to remember the conversation he had with Clarke.

"I asked him why his mind was silent." John says finally, causing Sherlock's eyebrows to jolt up in surprise.

"Subtle." He says out loud, but shoots lazy amusement into the connection.

"Wait a minute. What?" Lestrade says confused, the man had moved closer to bed now, instead of what he was doing before, which had been hovering in the doorway with one of his legs still turned to run after Clarke.

John realizes suddenly that of all the times that he's gotten together with the DI and talked, at the pub and at crime scenes, John hasn't really talked about his gift with the man.

Part of him is pretty sure that Mycroft's given Lestrade the basic but it's not really the same as it is coming from the source.

John decides to fill him in.

"I'm a telepath." John says suddenly with a prideful, silly, half-raised smile.

He is on the _really _good drugs.

Sherlock just rolls his eyes and looks at the DI, who rolls his eyes too, at his friend's drugged antics.

"Clarke seems to have no thoughts in his brain." Sherlock takes over, interrupting John before the doctor can add anything more pointless. "And I don't mean that's he's idiotic. He literally has no thoughts that John can read." The detective adds, as an afterthought for clarity.

"I see." Lestrade doesn't, but John doesn't tell Greg that he's projecting, that would be rude.

"So, is that good or bad?" Lestrade asks instead, his face masked slightly, probably to hide the fact that he doesn't know what they are talking about. At least, that's what John thinks.

"Good." Sherlock says automatically.

"Bad." John blurts out at the same time as Sherlock, his own voice sulky and petulant.

"We've already had this talk." Sherlock says, and it's as close to chastisement, without being outright condescending, as John has ever seen him be. John scoffs regardless.

"I can't hear what he's thinking though. _WE_ don't know for sure." THe doctor replies childishly, attempting to fold his arms but the wires get stuck and tangled and he gets distracted for a minute trying to unscramble them.

"How many drugs is he on?" He can hear Lestrade's faint voice and John, if he hadn't been concentrating really hard on getting his hands and wires situated, would have given the man a rude gesture.

As it stands, John doesn't and finally gets his wires and IV settled before turning his head towards Sherlock again.

"He panicked when I asked him." John says because he can finally remember how this conversation got started.

"Why?" Lestrade asks first, even though John can feel the curiosity buzzing through the connection.

John shrugs and realizes, when a tiny pinprick of pain jolts through his head, that he shouldn't do that and despite the drugs, he's still damaged.

With that thought, memories and feelings come spiraling into the forefront of John's mind with rapid clarity, changing John's course of thinking to an entirely different matter.

"Do you know what happened?" John whispers, his tone of voice completely different from seconds earlier. His words, John knows, interrupt the beginning of Sherlock's deductions about Clarke's mental muteness.

The consulting detective and the DI's heads whip towards the man laying the hospital bed, both of them cease talking immediately, responding instantly to the serious tone.

John feels a squeeze of Sherlock's hand and through the connection he feels the confusion, fear, grief, shame, remorse, and anger. John lifts his eyes and sees the small glare that Sherlock is leveling at him.

John takes that as a yes, Sherlock does know what happened.

He's about to open his mouth when, _"I saw the CCTV. You should have told me about him." _comes through the bond and John resist the urge to flinch at the acidity that follows the thought.

"I did." Sherlock glare intensifies, "Sort of."

John feels like his shrinking underneath the gaze. He opens his mouth to say something but Sherlock's angry voice supersedes anything John would've say.

"You did not tell me the extent of your history with that man." Sherlock doesn't yell, his voice is perfectly calm and that's what really betrays the fact that he's extremely angry.

"He tortured me and then stabbed me and beat me up a few times." John says, trying to brush it off as not being that big of deal. It really isn't, two out of the three happened a long time ago and John doesn't really think about those memories anymore...much.

That, however, was not the thing to say because this has Sherlock turning red, which, in turn, has John trying to backpedal rapidly.

"I thought he was in jail," John says placatingly, "or what Mycroft does to enemies of the crown or whatever, honest." John hurries out, trying to steady his boyfriend.

Anything to get that horrid look off the detective's face. He sends shame and remorse through the link as his apologies.

Nobody says anything for a minute. Sherlock is seething silently while John plasters him with remorse and calming thoughts while Lestrade shuffles awkwardly to John's left.

John, in between trying to pacify Sherlock, wonders what he DI is even doing here.

Before anybody talks or John is able to open his mouth to question Lestrade's presence, someone walks in the door.

John has no idea why the sight of Mycroft, out of everybody he's seen today, has his body relaxing significantly. John didn't even know that he had been that tense until he sees the politician and visibly deflates.

Sherlock must have noticed too because the anger is gone from his face and replaced with a concern, anxious look that John can't place.

_"Ah, he's awake."_ The thought projects out and John finds himself curious as to why Mycroft is there, also.

The doctor looks between everyone and gets a slightly nervous feeling. This feels strangly like an intervention and John doesn't know if he is in the right frame of mind, i.e. drugs, pain, or, if he has the strength to fight one.

_"John."_

The thought is hesitant and John turns his head towards the thinker, Sherlock, who is staring at the telepath with faint trepidation. And that makes John even more nervous. He's a tenacious son of a bitch, but he's had a rough day and this intervention will be brutal.

Regardless, the doctor nods his acknowledgement dubiously.

"What's going on?" John says defensively, something is happening and the doctor doesn't like the ambush. Or he could just be overly paranoid, again, still.

Better safe than sorry.

_"Calm down, John." _

Sherlock shakes John's hand, getting the doctor's attention successfully, _"Calm your breathing." _

And John doesn't even notice that his breathing is starting to hitch with worry. John feels the start of an incursion of happiness, calm and love coming from Sherlock and John smiles faintly before taking a deep breath.

_"We are just here to talk." _That one comes from Mycroft and, great, that's just what John needs, two Holmes in his head.

"Out loud, for Christ sakes, I can't take the two you projecting into my head." John says irritably, still thinking this is an ambush of some sort.

Both of the Holmes brothers nod a little contritely and Lestrade just stares between everybody, and John can hear that Lestrade doesn't know anymore than John does and that actually reassures the doctor a little bit.

"I could hear you in my head, John." Sherlock says seriously and with such certainty, that John wonders how long it took him to come to believe that statement.

But, that doesn't mean it makes any lick of sense to the doctor.

He looks at Sherlock quizzically. "That does tend to happen, Sherlock." John says slowly before pointing to himself. "Telepath, me." Lestrade lets out a silent huff of laughter that everyone hears but chooses to ignore.

Sherlock gives a grunt of frustration before speaking again. "No need to be an idiot, John." Sherlock says before pointing to his head with his free hand. "I heard you in here. Your voice, not just your emotions."

And John sputters vaguely. "No shit?" Is the only thing that he can get out because Sherlock's confession is just so far fetched that it can't be true.

The detective nods, as does the politician, who John just stares at bemused. "How would you know?" John ask, a tad waspish.

"I had the pleasure of hearing it, also." Mycroft answers politely and all John can think is slightly rude and vulgar curses towards the politician. Damn him.

This can't be true. There is no way that this has any truth to it. This must be a joke, or John is dreaming.

However, something makes John start to think back to Moran's visit. He remembers the sheer panic and the pain and the fear with such clarity and he remembers that all he could think was...

"Get Mycroft." John whispers and the Holmes' nod sincerely. Sherlock, in particular, is nodding grimly with an odd hint of curiosity. Git.

"You kept repeating that, even before I got to the clinic. It sounded like your voice. You were panicking." Sherlock says and John can hear and feel the underlying emotions. Sherlock had been scared and helpless when Moran had been around John. He didn't know what was going on to make John react that way and it made him afraid at what John was going through. He had bolted out of Baker Street so fast, dialing Mycroft along the way.

"I didn't know I could do that." John says finally and he's impressed with how even his voice is, because internally he's panicking.

Questions like, what does this mean? How is this possible? They float around his head in strange, repeating circles.

"Neither did we." Mycroft says diplomatically, and that makes John abruptly uncomfortable with the knowledge of how are Mycroft is of his gift.

However, that can't be helped and there is no reason to dwell on it, so, John moves on to pressing matters.

"Now what?" John says, but he directs the question to Mycroft.

If the politician was surprised at John's change of mood, he doesn't show it.

"Moran's escaped." Mycroft says, rather unnecessarily, if John admits to himself.

"Yes, that much I've gathered. I want to know two things," John says, eyeing the older man seriously, "How did he escape? And what are you doing to catch him now?"

The politician sighs and its the first time today that John sees the mask of his slip, just enough to reveal how tired and anxious Mycroft really is. Seconds later its back up and John looks briefly at Lestrade and Sherlock to see if either one caught it.

They did, but still, no one says anything.

"I didn't know he had escaped until I saw the CCTV of your office earlier today. I have since then talked to many of my people who know no longer work for me and the story that I can surmised is that he bribed one of his guards to let him go." Mycroft says and everyone can hear the disdain in his voice.

Sherlock growls slightly and even Lestrade's hackles rise but its John who asks, "Let him go?" There is a hint of exasperation and disbelief in John's tone. "Seriously Mycroft, you need new hiring criteria."

"Yes, well." Mycroft says rather dismissively and John realizes that the man is angry with himself. He's projecting it clear as day. John's eyes would have boggled but John finds himself not really surprised. Mycroft has a lot of respect for loyalty and even higher standards for knowing about his workers, so this must have been a big betrayal to the politician.

"As to your second question, despite what I just told you, I have my best people on it. Loyal ones." Mycroft says forcefully, but John hears how steady his beliefs are in his 'loyal' men.

John has faith in Mycroft's belief, he really does, but John knows Mycroft's history with his employees, not a trustworthy one between them, except for Anthea of course.

So excuse John for being weary that Mycroft thinks he can take care of it.

He looks over to Sherlock and they make eye contact and he knows that the consulting detective feels the same way.

This gives John two options really. One, he can trust Mycroft to track down Moran and put the man in prison (or wherever) and trust in the older man's ability to be able to keep him there, or his second option is that John goes after the sniper himself.

With that last thought, John's panic skyrockets internally without John doing anything.

He remembers Moran's touch, fingers twisted in his hair while all of his emotions and feelings were amplified and John shudders visibly at the possibility of having to feel that way again.

"Not a chance." Sherlock grumbles low, but loud enough were Mycroft's vision has zeroed in on them, like a bloody hawk. "You will not be going after that man." Sherlock commands forcefully.

"I might not have a choice." John says quietly, looking away from anyone, getting lost in the memories swirling around in his brain. He sighs in resignation.

"He severely incapacitated you, John." Mycroft says snidely. He saw the CCTV, he saw how John wasn't able to fight back. He knows that John's gift would not be advantageous in this endeavor.

That last part is projected by Mycroft and it has John scowling at the lack of faith.

"He's right." Lestrade speaks up and that was the last person who John would've expected to speak up. "I saw the tapes, John. You were no chance against him."

John can hear all the questioning thoughts coming from their brains, wondering why he didn't fight back harder despite themselves and John realizes that it really should have been too much. He should have gotten a headache from all of the projections but his mind is thankfully pain free and he absentmindedly squeezed Sherlock's hand, hoping the tactile connection will continue to ground him.

"What happened?" Sherlock asks and it occurs to John that they don't really know. They saw the recording, yes, but they don't know why John couldn't fight back. Sherlock had been able to feel it because John bleed into the connection without meaning to, but the other two have no idea.

(Which, mental note, he's got to start being able to hold back his own emotions better)

"Well, when I first...met Moran," John beings, stumbling over how to describe their first encounter, it wasn't so much met, as Moran introducing himself with his fist. "He was really strong when it came to connections. I would try to prepare myself, but for some reason when he broke the connections it was twice as painful as usual and I could never get myself conditioned in time." John pauses to take a breath and look at the occupants of the room. Mycroft and Sherlock are both looking at him, nodding with understanding while Lestrade stares, slightly confused but either choosing to stay quiet or trying to work it out for himself. John would dig into his mind to find out which one if he wasn't tired and focused on his story.

So he continues.

"Then, we I saw the both of them, Moriarty and Moran, in Italy, I was more focused on Moriarty. Moran was able to sneak up on me and put a knife in my side." John takes a breath but doesn't stop to look around at the faces, he doesn't really like telling this part of the story. "Moran roughed me up a bit, before I shot Moriarty."

John, originally, wasn't going to say that last bit out loud, painfully aware of Lestrade's presence but with the murderous looks that Greg is harboring John doesn't think there is any love lost there.

"Then he was on me again, gave me a slight concussion and at that time I didn't feel his strength, his pull, I guess." John says, remindiscing back to that room in Italy. When Moran had punched the doctor, before John had put him too sleep, Moran's touch was normal and there was no instances of amplification like in recent events and that's a very curious observation.

He shakes his head, bringing himself back to the present. "I eventually put him to sleep. But he came back, yesterday, or what I assume was yesterday." John says with a hint of curiosity, looking at Sherlock who nods.

_"It's about ten in the morning, you've been out for about eighteen hours." _Sherlock supplies and John nods, a tad surprised at how long he had been out.

"Yesterday, he came to my office, I wasn't expecting him and it happened fast. Its a tad fuzzy in places."

"You were panicking." Sherlock helpfully supplies and John nods sheepishly, suddenly a little self-conscious at his, as he sees it, failure.

_"Nonsense, John. You did the best you could." _Sherlock reassures, looking into John's eyes with conviction and John melts a little before continuing.

"Anyway, I couldn't get to my gun fast enough and he was next to me swiftly. I became instantly alarmed when I couldn't read him." John says and at this statement, Lestrade visibly straightens, his brain clicking.

"Clarke?" Lestrade asks skeptically and with a hint of reluctance, like he can't quite believe that Clarke is a bad person.

"Yes, that's why I worry." John says honestly, although his dubiousness from earlier is gone.

"But, there is nothing bad about Clarke." Sherlock butts in with a sigh.

"How do you know?" Greg asks uncertainly, he's getting more and more uncomfortable with the possibility that he has someone under him that could hurt his friends and family.

"Consulting detective, remember? Why do I have to keep reminding people." Sherlock's voice is a touch querulous, like his word is the truth. And to be fair, it usually is, but that doesn't stop the twin dubious looks mirrored on Lestrade and John's face.

Mycroft is the only one who seems unfazed by John's worries about Clarke but the doctor chooses to ignore that for the time being.

"It didn't matter, anyway, because as soon as he touched me, there was nothing I could do. My own panic and fear were amplified when he touched me." John says this part quietly and that makes Sherlock and, surprisingly, Mycroft's growls of discontent seem even louder.

"I couldn't fight back, not to mention I'm pretty sure he gave me a concussion, again," John sighs, and conveniently can feel the twinges of pain start to fade through the haze of his painkillers. "And my head always gets fuzzier quicker whenever something messes with my brain. He taunted me some more and then left. You guys showed up and I passed out." John finishes looking at the people surrounding his bed. During the course of the conversation, Lestrade had found a chair to sit in while Mycroft remained standing at the foot of his bed. Sherlock is the only one who hadn't moved the entire time, he remained stationed in the same chair next to John, gripping the doctor's hand, not willing to let go.

After a beat of silence, "Why?" comes from Mycroft and the room knows that he means why was Moran able to shield?

"I didn't know anything like this existed." John says quietly, now that he's thought about Moriarty and Co. are the only people he's come across with any sort of special power to their brains, even though John is skeptical to say Moran has a power.

"It's theoretically possible," Sherlock begins, "We've practiced a bit of it over the course of living together."

"This was different," John says slowly, trying to process the information. It's true that Sherlock has been able to produce mental barriers in the past. Way before John 'died' and mostly when they were fighting, disagreeing over something or the memorable time when Sherlock had stopped doing things mentally because he wanted to protect John from further nose bleeds.

Now, John thinks he could break apart those flimsy barriers with ease.

"This wasn't just a mental barrier, this was a complete shield. This was impenetrable." John says confidently, making eye contact with Sherlock and Mycroft to convey how unique this is.

"All the more reason why you shouldn't go after him." Sherlock concludes with a soft command, like his word is law. And that makes John laughs softly at Sherlock's tenaciousness.

"Oh dear, I would have to agree with my brother on this one, John." Mycroft reiterates, clearly disturb by the fact that he's agreeing with his brother.

Lestrade stands up and comes closer to the bed. "I hate to say it, but they're right, mate. You are no match for that guy." The DI says placatingly, but John still bristles slightly.

However, he knows they are right and there is even a little part of him that fears the day that Moran catches up with him. The man did threaten to kill him. No doubt, an associate of Moriarty, this man collects on his threat. He decides to let Mycroft worry about it for now and nods in compliance.

The three men breathe a sigh of relief, like they were legitimately worried that John would go off on his own, all vigilante style and if that's the case they don't really know him at all.

So far, this man isn't a threat, not really. Sure, he came to his work and warned John that he was going to kill him but running around with Sherlock has the same likelihood of dying so John's not too worried.

For now.

Instead, he opens his mouth to smile and say something to placate the gentlemen but a yawn escapes and John suddenly realizes how tired he is and how much of the haze from the painkillers has receded and little bouts of pain are beginning to tingle all over his body, especially around his torso.

His ribs, that's right.

By the time John tries to stifle a second yawn and fails tragically. Lestrade had taken noticed and nudges Mycroft gently. The older gentlemen takes one look at John and nods.

"Let us not keep you, John. You are still recovering." The politician says and that's it, he grabs Greg's elbow gracefully and pulls the DI out of the room, Greg waving sheepishly goodbye.

And isn't that just like Mycroft Holmes.

"Go to sleep, John." Sherlock says softly and John tears his eyes away from the door to look at his lover. Sherlock's face is open with relief, relief that John is still here, alive.

"I'm sorry, about the link and worrying." John says because he had a sudden compulsion to do so. He knows how overbearing his gift can be and Sherlock doesn't really deserve the burden.

"John," Sherlock starts, bringing his free hand up to cup John's face tenderly, _"You have nothing to be sorry for. I'm just glad I got there in time." _

John knows there is more to say, he can feel his own mind buzzing with words that need to be said, but he lets Sherlock's words and emotions, that he's sending through the link, to reassure him for now and lets himself fall into a deep slumber.

"And John?" Sherlock says just as the edges of unconsciousness are threatening to take the doctor, and John forces himself to blearily open one of his eyes, sleep already grasping at him.

"Yes." He says, barely getting his mouth open to articulate the words.

"I plan on experimenting with this new development of your gift." Sherlock says with a smile that would make sharks jealous and its the last thing John hears before sleep takes him.

And that's just not fair.


	9. Chapter 9: Learning A New Skill

Wow, thanks for everyone who has said such nice things about this fic and the it's prequel.

I just want to remind that all mistakes are my own, I'm usually pretty good but sometimes things slip through, I hope its not too distracting from the story.

Who wants Sherlock whump? John whump?

What do you guys want?

Let me know?

Onwards and upwards

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>John gets to go home about a day later. Doctors, (i.e. Mycroft and Sherlock) kept him an additional day because of the severity of his beatings. Which John chose not to argue with because he didn't fancy arguing with his boyfriend and the British Government at the same time.<p>

During that time, Sherlock had insisted John get another MRI. What Sherlock does with those and what he gathers from them, John will never know because his brain's image doesn't change and hasn't changed his entire life.

Regardless, it proved a distraction for the detective, so John's mouth remained shut for the duration of his hospital stay.

Now, he's finally returned home, and his boss insists that John take the week off, to which the doctor is extremely grateful. The blogger has no compulsions about going back to the room he was so severely beaten in anytime soon.

He arrives at home with a relatively quiet fanfare, Sherlock helping the doctor up the stairs because of his cracked ribs and Mrs. Hudson fluttering about, fussing like the endearing mother hen she is while making tea and snacks.

John graciously thanks her and she leaves to do whatever Mrs. Hudson does on a normal day.

For the first time in two days, John is able to sit in quiet. No beeping and no chatter from Lestrade, Mycroft or Sherlock (and if the last two were there at the same time, it would be less chatter and more loud bickering).

John sits gingerly in his chair, letting the cushions swaddle him and his cracked ribs as he leans back and closes his eyes.

The quiet doesn't last long and John, really shouldn't have thought it would.

Sherlock drifts into the sitting room and until that moment, John didn't really know where Sherlock had been since they've come home. Probably putting John's newest MRI with the others in his freaky collection.

Regardless, John can feel the apprehension and curiosity coming through the link and it sends John on edge.

"There is one thing that doesn't make sense." Sherlock starts, saying his thoughts out loud and that doesn't make John any less apprehensive. The doctor turns his head, to glance briefly over his shoulder. Sherlock is standing in the door jamb of the sitting room, one his fingers stroking his chin and it would have been comical if Sherlock's serious and slightly hurt expression hadn't been a prominent feature on his face.

John doesn't like that expression, not one bit. So, he sends happiness and content through the link in hopes to get rid of that awful look.

_"Stop it." _Sherlock snaps softly before opening his mouth again. "Why didn't Moran just kill you? Why did he leave?"

And of all the things that Sherlock could have said, he picks the one thing that John doesn't want to talk about. At all.

It's not that he's been hiding the reason, per se, he just doesn't feel the necessity to pay attention to Moran's threats and telling other people would just making them worry and agitated.

Just like Sherlock is now.

"You know why he left." Sherlock says and its a statement not a question and John knows he's screwed. He can feel a bubbling anger coming from the detective but Sherlock doesn't quite know how angry or what to angered about yet so its simmering under the surface, waiting.

The detective enters the sitting room fully now and sits in the chair opposite of John, his eyes narrow as he tries to deduce what John is hiding.

The doctor remains still and he pushes his residual feelings, so they don't bleed through, to the back of his mind, hoping to shield himself away from the detective's prying observations.

_"John." _The thought whines, or as close to a whine as the detective gets but John still doesn't say anything.

He doesn't know why he is being so stubborn, it's not like talking about Moran's vicious threats of suffering and death will change anything.

But, John thinks, it _will_ change things. It will make finding Moran a higher priority.

Is that really a bad thing? John shakes his head, it could be good, the extra motivation. But, John knows how Sherlock will take that, he will drop everything to find Moran and possibly not let John come with.

Which will only put Sherlock in more danger.

So, its advantageous of John to withhold the truth, even though he knows eventually, that Sherlock will pull it out of him.

"John, what did he say?" And Sherlock has lost all pretenses of friendliness, his voice is hard and demanding and John doesn't know if he should fight against it or not.

"It's not that big of a deal, honestly." John saids shrugging and he still believes it really isn't. Sherlock leans forward, putting his elbows onto his knees and stares straight at John who starts to shift uncomfortably.

_"Don't make me do this." _John stares at him and resigns himself to the eventual observations of Sherlock Holmes.

The consulting detective sighs and opens his mouth resignedly, "You are obviously hiding something from me and since the CCTV in your office have no sound, I haven't a clue what. However, you are shifting uncomfortably, nervous of my question, no, nervous that I'm going to find out and do something. But do what? And why?"

John shifts without thinking and that makes Sherlock narrow his eyes even more, before his face contorts briefly with anger. "He threatened to kill you." The detective says and John looks away from the piercing gaze. "No. It's more than that, he threatened to make you wait for your death, suffering and never knowing when it was going to come. Otherwise he would have just killed you right away. He's playing with you."

John can feel the anger, grief, dismay, dread and bitterness coming through the connection but he only sighs with defeat. He never really expected to be able to hide it from the detective, not really.

"Like I said, not that big of deal." John says quietly, not really admitting or denying the amount of truth the observations holds.

_"John." _The thought drips with anger and bewilderment, like he can't believe that John would hide something this big and be dismissive about it.

"Look, Sherlock, Moran is about as dangerous as any of the criminals we chase after on a daily basis. He's not a threat." John says with a commanding tone, just shy of pleading, wishing the detective would understand how big of a deal this _isn't._

"He intends to make you suffer," Sherlock starts and the last word is spit through his mouth with acrid anger. "He intends to make you wait, making you think you are safe before he strikes again." Sherlock looks at John now, and his eyes are full of hurt and pleading for John to understand the severity of the situation.

"Then, when he has lulled you into a false sense of peace, he'll snatch you, if he doesn't decide to just kill you on the spot, then he will torture you." Sherlock finishes, his anger coursing through the link and John is tempted to calm the man down but chooses to the let the man feel unhindered.

"I can handle it." John says with a tenaciously calm voice. He should be agreeing with the detective but deep down, he can't help but worry about the man's involvement.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's mouth is open and he's not even hiding the pure disbelief at the audacity of John's words.

John, for a second, thinks that Sherlock is going to yell, raise his voice to a new high that will have Mrs. Hudson making an appearance, telling them to simmer down.

Instead, Sherlock emits a very quiet, "I don't know if _I_ can." while he looks down at the floor and the picture breaks John's heart.

This entire time, he had been worried about keeping Sherlock from trouble, he didn't spend an ounce of thought on how Sherlock would feel about the prospect of losing John so soon after just getting him back.

"Oh, Sherlock." John sighs with remorse. "This doesn't mean that I'm going to after the man myself."

Sherlock glares at him before standing abruptly to pace. "It's not about that. You don't have to go looking for a man that's hell bent on killing you in the slowest way possible." The detective spits out and John watches him wear an imaginary line into the flooring.

"He's not that dangerous," John says in denial mostly but his voice is slightly sulky. Sherlock glares at him again but doesn't dignify that statement with a response.

Instead, he moves over to John, kneeling in front of the man and putting his hands on John's knees.

"John, I do not want to lose you to this man." The statement is full of such fierce longing, coupled with the hints of fear, apprehension, pain, and dread floating through the connection, that John finds himself losing himself in the detective's stormy eyes.

"You won't." John says and cups the man's cheek, sending love and understanding through the tactile connection as soon as it appears.

"You have to let me, Mycroft, you have to let us protect you. You have to tell us these things." Sherlock pleads desperately and John finds himself giving in rather easily, nodding reluctantly, he could never say no to Sherlock. And, in all honesty, what difference would it make. He would get more protection and that's not a bad thing.

_"Thank you, John." _The thought is full of relief and Sherlock stands to press his forehead against the doctor's before kissing the doctor with filthy intent.

* * *

><p>Hours later, after they had finished their afternoon sex, that was very gentle because of John's injuries, John had once more relocated to the sitting room going through multiple cups of tea and watching a crap ton of bad telly, John opens his paper to read what he's missed from the day.<p>

He hears the footsteps of Sherlock descending the stairs, finally coming out of his 'lab'.

John senses the man moving about, into the kitchen making a bit of noise before moving in the bedroom and then back into the kitchen again. John's about to call out but before he can, Sherlock is standing right in front of him.

"Okay John, let's do this." The detective says without any preamble and John gapes like an incredulous fish.

"Do what?" The doctor responds and sends confusion through the link.

_"Don't be daft John. We are going to do an experiment. The experiment."_ The thought screams 'idiot' in its tone and it takes the doctor an embarrassingly long time to figure out what they would experiment on.

When he finally does realize it, he's suddenly apprehensive and wary, preferring to pretend that the newest aspect of his gift doesn't exist.

"I don't know if I can duplicate it." He says truthfully and he means it.

He can suddenly talk in other people's heads?

He doesn't know anything about that. John wasn't even aware he had been doing it at the time. He doesn't know if this is his ability evolving normally or if it was a one-off, coming out under extreme duress.

_"Nonsense." _Sherlock thinks and John rolls his eyes at the detective's confidence.

"I did it originally under severe distress." John says, trying to persuade the genius from going down this road. He'd rather not find out if he can project his voice into other peoples' heads, not after all the time it took them to perfect the emotional code.

"Think of how easier it will be to communicate this time around." Sherlock says logically and John snorts. If anything, it would harder because John doesn't remember how he did it in the first place.

"Come on John. I'm bored." Sherlock says before putting his pointer finger and his thumb in the gesture of gun and pointing at the wall. John glares at the younger man with piercing force.

"That's not fair and you know it." John sighs resignedly, he really should just walk away. He should get up, very carefully, and walk away.

But, that would imply that John isn't even the tiniest bit curious as to how he's new feature may work.

And John is extremely curious, so he just nods and Sherlock is off.

"Your gift seems to manifest with stronger force under extreme duress, such as the cases from when Moriarty had you before...your absence and the case with Moran just recently." Sherlock says and paces around the room, and John notices the way that Sherlock's voice hitches when he talks about John's fake death, but the doctor remains silent and instead tries to understand where Sherlock is going with this.

"I, however, am not saying we should repeat those circumstances that would be counterintuitive," Sherlock swallows and then quietly continues, "I don't want to see you in that kind of pain again."

John, up until this point, had remained stoically in his chair, the paper still clutched in his hands because he had been intently reading it, but now, he stands, puts the paper down and walks over to the detective. He settles down, very mindful of his injuries and proceeds to wrap a hand around Sherlock's shoulder, aware of the weight of the man's quiet statement.

"What are you suggesting?" John says after a minute of tense silence.

"Yes, well," Sherlock shakes his head, getting rid of the brief melancholy, and clears his throat, "I think we should try focusing." Sherlock says simply and John huffs a laugh. As if anything about his gift would be simple, or as if it was that easy.

"Right." John says rolling his eyes, while being secretly glad that the tension from mere minutes ago is starting to diminish rapidly.

Sherlock sends John a sideways glance and ignores the man's disbelief. "You didn't know that you could project your own thoughts into other peoples' heads but you can. You didn't know that you could influence peoples' emotions, but you have. John, the evidence is there, we've developed your gift throughout our existence with each other. What's to say that simply focusing on trying to implant your voice into my head is impossible?"

Sherlock finishes gracefully, his composure stiff yet soft while he waits for John to see logic.

And John does, he actually sees the 'evidence', as Sherlock describes it, laid out before him. He knows that, with Sherlock's help, he has been able to improve his gift to extremes that he didn't even think possible.

Who's to say that this isn't just a matter of the appropriate amount of focus?

John sighs in resignation and Sherlock takes that as assent.

"Good," He says, slapping his hands together and putting them under his chin, like he does. "Right, go."

Like it's that easy.

John looks at the consulting detective incredulously but doesn't say anything. Instead, he takes his arm back and puts his hands in his lap. John closes his eyes and loses himself into his mind, latching onto the bond between them with his undivided attention.

He bounces on the surface for a while and tries to go deeper. It's a little hard at first but then Sherlock brings one of his hands down to grip John's bare skinned hand and the connection suddenly blossoms.

Lilac floats through him, with it's sweet smell and John physically smiles at the familiarity and warmth. At the same time, honey drips with a sort of sticky pleasure, coating the mental link and John laps it up with recognized fondness. He weaves through the first couple of layers of Sherlock's brain, letting the senses wrap around him, like a mental cocoon before John allows himself to go deeper into Sherlock's brain.

In all honesty, John hasn't really attempted to go this deep into the brunette's brain in a long time. Recently, there hasn't been a need. Their bond's always been switched on and present and John gets the thoughts as they are thought and there is no reason to dig.

Not to mention the fact that John still likes to give Sherlock his privacy, because he knows how oppressive his gift can be.

He gets himself situated into Sherlock's mind. Peeling back layers, and sometimes occasionally stopping to view the random thought or picture of Sherlock's, sometimes of them together and others of random dead bodies from the morgue.

Honestly, if John wasn't already fully aware of who Sherlock is, he would be disturbed at how much time Sherlock really does think about dead bodies.

Nonetheless, the doctor gets through a decent amount of layers, all the while remembering how and what he's doing so that he can repeat it _if _this even works.

_"Hello." _John sends out and it makes him feel extremely silly. He opens one of his eyes, keeping his focus remaining in Sherlock's brain but wondering if the man heard him.

Going by the genius's expression, that's a probable no.

Sherlock's face hasn't changed and is still the same curious, dissecting gaze that normally happens when he experiments.

Sherlock notices John looking at him and immediately deduces that John has tried. The younger man shakes his head briefly and John sighs.

He closes his eyes again, takes a deep breath and tries to go deeper.

He's never really done this before, at least not at this slow of a pace. Whenever he sends someone to sleep, its a straight shot to that portion of the brain, he doesn't stop to peel back layer by layer, he just cuts through them mentally as fast as possible.

John wonders idly if that hurts them. That thought makes John suddenly uncomfortable and he thinks back to all the people he's sent to sleep or dug around in their brain, peeling back their layers.

"Does this hurt?" John asks quietly, pausing in his mental diggings because he needs to know this answer right now.

Sherlock just looks as him, raising his eyebrows, and says, "Not particularly. It's this sort of poking, a tugging if you will, and its very distinctive, for me at least." Sherlock pauses here to look down are their intertwined hands and give it a squeeze.

"It can be uncomfortable, especially when you send unexpected thoughts through but its never been painful." The consulting detective finishes and his face is open and honest. John narrows his eyes looking for a slip, but Sherlock seems to believe in what he just said so John decides to let it go for now and hopes that the man will inform him if its beginning to hurt.

He nods briefly, relieved to a certain degree, and moves back to pulling back layers. More images of Sherlock's memories brush by John and the deeper he goes the older and even less pleasant the memories seem to be. He chooses to not spend too much time on these memories, still maintaining the genius's privacy.

He decides to dig as deep as he can, stopping every couple of layers to send a tentative mental greeting.

Still, nothing happens, he probes deeper, twisting and peeling, hoping that the trigger to his problem lies somewhere in the cavernous confines of Sherlock's brain.

He's about two layers before Sherlock's core, where the detective keeps his mind palace in startling shiny glory, when he chooses to try again, almost half-heartedly and with little hope. He's starting to even get a little headache and that's a new feeling nowadays. He hasn't gotten a headache from his powers, except from Moran's visit, since his days spent 'dead'.

_"Hello." _John sends and its just as silly and tentative as the first time he had tried.

However, this time, the reaction from Sherlock is much different.

The detective next to him jerks away, a whole body movement that has him dislodging his hand from John's grip. The connection is broken and it twinges with a bit of pain but nothing too severe. It does intensify his headache slightly but John tries to ignore that, instead, focusing on trying to keep himself in that layer, despite the fact that he doesn't have the tactile connection to ground him.

His eyes are closed tightly, trying to hold on to the depth of his existence in Sherlock's brain, not wanting to lose it. He doesn't open his eyes to see what's wrong with Sherlock, his can't or he'll lose his standing.

Instead, he continues, _"Did you hear me?" _and John's head exudes a throb but the doctor continues to ignore it. He can sense that Sherlock's pacing because of the slight draft of cool air that would pass over him whenever the man would walk close by.

_"I did." _

Sherlock's thought is firm but John can feel the slight panic and agitation, like Sherlock didn't expect to actually hear John, like he's surprised, even though this had been his bloody idea.

Because John is so deep-rooted in Sherlock's brain, the detective must have felt the splash of bitterness that John is feeling because the next thing the doctor knows, Sherlock's sitting back down beside him, slipping both his hands into John's grip again. This entire time, John hasn't opened his eyes, but they relax a bit when the tactile connection grounds John.

The tactile connection sweeps through John instantaneously and John feels the headache recede slightly but it doesn't go away completely.

Despite his hard focus, and the very slow, yet persistent headache, John smiles. The kind of big smile he emits when he's done something hard and accomplished and he is just happy that he's been productive.

He opens an eye to look at Sherlock briefly and sees the smile mirrored on the thin face. All panic and fear from before seem to have vanished and the detective looks surprised, proud and amazed.

_"That's amazing." _Sherlock's thought is so full of love, adoration, pride, and happiness, and because John is so deep he can feel their potency, and the doctor has to resist the urge to let tears fall because of the pureness of the emotions.

He holds them in and instead focuses on have a conversation.

_"What happened?" _John asks as he tries to experiment with this new aspect of his gift that he didn't even know existed.

_"Logically, I knew what we were doing but hearing you in my head without any emotions like before was a very surprising experience. I apologize for losing control." _Sherlock's thought seems shy, like he's ashamed at leaving John so abruptly.

And, at that, John snorts in amusement, only a Holmes would apologize for losing control.

_"No worries, this is very strange and if I wasn't focusing right now, I would be freaking out as well." _John states giving Sherlock's hand a reassuring squeeze.

Sherlock, having gotten over his 'shameful' reaction, goes into a mentally tirade about how he thinks this is possible.

To John, its seems like a lot of gibberish so the doctor focuses, while listening, on testing the limits of what he can do. He recedes a layer and adds an answering word of acquiescence to Sherlock's thoughts an the detective responds so John knows that he is still being heard despite having climbed up a layer.

John ascends Sherlock's layers of the mind slowly, stopping at each layer and saying something, trying to find out just how deep he has to go.

About five layers later, he tries to say something mentally but Sherlock stops 'talking'.

_"Where did you go?" _Sherlock's thought is full of confusion and even a slight apprehension, like he's uncomfortable with the fact that John isn't present anymore.

"You can't hear me now?" John asks quizzically and Sherlock shakes his head in the negative.

John digs down one layer and adds a _"Fascinating." _that has Sherlock beaming again.

"I've found how deep I need to go in order to do this." John says out loud because he's headache seems to be increasing slightly because of his focus.

_"Really?" _Sherlock's thought asks with pride and John nods, opening his eyes to look at the man with a smile.

_"Are you up for more experiments?" _Sherlock asks and even though John is feeling effects, he would rather see how far he can go in one sitting. The doctor nods and Sherlock's smile, if possible, stretches wider. The detective leans over and plants a kiss on John's cheek before moving his hands away slowly, aware of the connection break.

John prepares himself but even then there is a jolt to his headache when Sherlock releases his grip. He'll need to do further research on that later.

Right now, as the tactile connection diminishes, John has to shut his eyes tightly to keep his focus on the layers of Sherlock's brain, keeping himself there so that he can still talk.

He feels Sherlock move to his chair across the room and sit down, while John's shoulders have tensed and his posture gone rigid, a complete turn around from his relaxed state seconds ago.

_"Can you still hear me?" _John sends, trying to quell his headache.

_"Yes." _Sherlock sends back and John can feel the amazement that has both of them smiling.

_"I didn't know I could do this." _John thinks and he's suddenly nervous, like he always gets when he discovers something new and extremely dangerous about his gift.

He's gone through this debate in his head so many times. He knows that he is dangerous, what he does and can do is a threat to people. He knows this but his it doesn't stop his curiosity or his self-preservation. He allows himself to use his gift, his power, for good? No for logic.

It's logical to read a bad guys thoughts so that they don't kill you. It's logical to familiarize ones' self with those they meet regularly so that there are no surprise attacks.

It's all logical.

But it's all still dangerous.

This is giving the doctor an even bigger headache.

_"John." _Sherlock calls but John can only wince. His headache has rapidly increased within the last seconds and the doctor is beginning to feel the strain.

He screws his eyes shut tighter, but doesn't fade from Sherlock's brain. He wants to see how far he can go.

_"I'm fine, just a headache." _John says, wincing as the thought leaves him.

_"We should stop." _Sherlock's thought is full of apprehension and worry, like it normally is when John suffers side effects. But if there is one thing about John Watson that everyone knows or should knows is that the man is bloody stubborn.

_"No." _John shakes his head negatively and continues on. _"Scientifically, its more difficult to maintain the level of concentration and focus while we aren't touching." _John says as more of distraction for Sherlock than anything else.

It works and the detective dives into another stream of thoughts about different experiments they could do and wondering how long their range could be for this type of telepathy. John opens his eyes briefly to see that Sherlock's got his closed, in his 'prayer' stance. He's focusing, it seems like, just as much as John.

As Sherlock continues, John feels a sudden ripple echo through his brain and before he can gather where it came from, he feels something wet start to drip from his nose.

_"Uh oh." _John sends, without thinking about it, through the connection and he sees Sherlock's head snap towards him, the detective's eyes open and narrowing with worry. The doctor brings a hand up to his nose and tries to wipe the blood away, causing a red streak along the back of his hand.

"Huh." He says, looking at the blood smeared across his skin and thats when Sherlock springs into action. The detective sprints into the kitchen, there is clattering briefly before he comes back out with a dish cloth and a glass of water.

In the thirty seconds it took Sherlock to gather things from the kitchen, John's brain starts to throb to extremely painful levels and his nosebleed flows extravagantly.

The detective comes back into the sitting room, putting the glass of water on the coffee table and pushing John so he's leaning against the back of the couch, his head tipped up. There's a sudden fabric on his face and the doctor can feel Sherlock pushing the cloth against his nose, trying to gather up the blood that is spilling.

_"Thanks." _John sends closing his eyes against the sudden brightness of the room as his headache starts to tear through him.

This might have been too much, too fast.

_"Get out." _Sherlock's thought comes through a bit hastily and with venom and John opens his eyes so fast that the light makes him such them again. He can't help the hurt that flashes across his face.

Sherlock, in all of the times he's known him, has never asked John to get out of his head and the request hurts more than it should.

"John, you are hurting yourself." Sherlock says out loud, wary of causing the doctor more pain.

Then, there is a hand cupping his cheek unexpectedly and tender but instead of the usual warmth that comes with the tactile connection, it seems to have the opposite effect.

Cold, hard pain come through the connection and it disorients John.

Needless to say, he pulls out of Sherlock's brain rapidly, ascending the layers with ease.

This has never happened before and the doctor doesn't know what to do about it. A whimper escapes and Sherlock jerks his hand back, seemingly fully aware of his physical presence.

However, Sherlock jerking his hands back don't help either. Something is wrong, usually when connections are broken with Sherlock there is never pain.

But, for some reason today, while they are trying out the new aspects of his gift, John is getting painful feedback from all features of his gift.

That begs the questions, is it because John is experimenting with something new? Or is it because he's stumble across something dangerous that he shouldn't mess with?

"John, what's going on?" Sherlock asks out loud and John realizes that the detective doesn't know what to do. John can still feel the blood coming from his nose and the pain erupting from his head and truthfully, John doesn't know what to do either.

"It'll pass." John says, trying to sound confident but internally just trying not to cry from his headache.

He's going to pass out from this pain, he realizes suddenly, if past experiences are to be applied to this setting.

"I think it may have been too much the first time around." Sherlock says quietly, and John snorts, a movement that shakes his head and he vows to not do that again, ever.

"Listen, Sherlock, I might pass out from the pain-" John starts calmly, before he's interrupted.

"What? What are you talking about?" Sherlock's voice is panicking and John wonders if they should be used to this by now.

Apparently not.

"My headache is getting worst, as is my nose bleed. This feels like all the other times." John says softly but he can feel Sherlock vibrating with agitation next to him.

No one is touching him, and John has been out of Sherlock's mind for a while now but the headache isn't disappearing, if anything its getting worse, and it's beginning to worry John.

He wants to clutch his head and force the pain away but he can't move. Between the pain and Sherlock hovering over him, holding the bloodied cloth against his still bleeding nose, he feels stuck.

And now, he's starting to feel dizzy and he hopes its not from blood loss.

He calculates in his head as he opens his eyes briefly, cringing against the brightness, before grabbing the cloth and looking at how much blood he's expelled.

Not to bad, still an alarming amount but not enough to make him dizzy by itself. So that means his headache combined with the nosebleed is going to make him faint, and soon.

"Sherlock-" John starts but can't finish because he feels his head lull to the side without his consent and his mouth becomes dry.

"John. John." Sherlock says frantically and he's never really been any good at holding in his emotions when John suffers side affects.

"Don' worry." John slurs, opening his eyes to look at Sherlock's panicked expression. "I'm jus' gonna passsss out."

And that's the last thing John says before his eyes close involuntarily and his body goes lax.


	10. Chapter 10: Trapped

I don't wear this idea came from, but it's here.

Now, I know this might be a filler chapter but it explains some things about Clarke at the end and its good peril writing.

However, there might be some of you who won't like it because its implausible or whatever, but lets just ignore all the (possible) plot holes and just enjoy the chapter and then you don't have to ever read it again once I continue on. Okay? Capiche?

(P.S. Thanks to Addicts To Fanfics for picking out some spelling and grammar stuff, I appreciate it and I fix the problems)

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p><strong>A few weeks later...<strong>

John shouldn't have listened to Sherlock, he should have just finished his cup of Earl Grey and gone to work like he had planned. If he had done that he wouldn't have found himself in a cavernous sewer, that seems to be more cave than concrete and shivering from the rapidly rising water.

He had just gone to work like he should have, he would be stuck in this sewer with no way out.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sweeps into the kitchen with a huff, where John is sitting quietly, sipping his tea and updating his blog before work.<p>

The blogger looks up and sees the manic and excited expression twisting the detective face with glee and the doctor automatically narrows his eyes cautiously.

Sherlock is dressed in his normal attire, button up shirt with a suit jacket on, he's ready to go out.

_"It's great. Fantastic. We need to get leaving." _The thoughts stream from the genius and John sighs before looking at his watch. He has a shift today from eight until two and he shouldn't really call in. He should get up, wash out his tea cup, close his laptop, get his shoes and go to work. He should really do all of that, he has a responsibility.

He moves his hand to his now empty cuppa and looks up to see Sherlock staring at him. _"You haven't called in 'sick' for weeks." _Sherlock says, his thoughts quiet, almost shy, _"Ever since Moran and the week following." _Ah, Sherlock's not being shy, he's slightly uncomfortable.

The doctor looks down and remembers back to that week.

Ever since the night that John had passed out from learning that he could project, or send his thoughts in conversation terms, the genius has been, unsurprisingly, hesitant to learning as much as possible. Not unlike some of the other times that John has had side affects.

That didn't stop John, the doctor had a whole week off, so he spent his convalescence practicing, and, he was eventually able to wear Sherlock's vacillation down by sending his thoughts until the genius's curiosity got the better of him.

Within two weeks, John was able to have a very brief (_very _brief) conversation with Sherlock, using their mind and no emotional code.

However, John's had to suffer through multiple nosebleeds and headaches, though none of them made him pass out again. Also, after that night, connection breaking and Sherlock's immunity went back to normal, not causing any pain, which baffles the doctor and detective alike. Sherlock hypothesizes that because John's brain was focused on a new feature, things, like the connection conditioning, were pushed to the side, thus causing unexpected, albeit minimal, pain.

Still, with the new developments, John doesn't project his voice as much because of the constant headache he gets when they try. They only use it for emergencies, well they would if they had had any, or when they are practicing. John's got the knack of it but as it develops it seems his mind has to get used to it, yet.

So, its a slow process, (one they've been working on for weeks) because John has to take breaks or his headaches get worse.

Unsurprisingly, they mostly still stick to the emotional code, at least until John can develop his new aspect without the pain. Everyday, he can push his projections longer and longer so the doctor has hope. His mind just has to evolve more.

_"Come along, John." _Sherlock's impatient thought breaks John out of his wonderings as the detective disappears onto the landing. He, in the time that John had been thinking, had put his shoes, coat and scarf on.

John watches the man disappear and sighs, deciding whether or not to put his foot down. He should really go into work, like a responsible adult.

_"I think I've found Johnson." _Sherlock interrupts, poking his head back through the doorway to look at John who hasn't moved. John's eyebrows, do, shoot up in surprise however.

"Really?" John asks surprised. Sherlock nods enthusiastically and adds, _"You know you want to come and look at the man who has eluded me for the last three weeks." _

And, boy, does John ever. Johnson, an embezzler turned murderer has been able to evade Sherlock, and left the man in a frustrated funk, for the past three weeks because of this man's elusive ability to refrain from getting captured or even found by the great Sherlock Holmes.

The older man knows that the decision has been made, ever since Johnson's name was mentioned.

He's going to call into work, for the sake of the genius's violin if anything. That thing has had to deal with Sherlock's murderous mood for the past three weeks. It needs a reprieve.

John shuts his laptop and grabs his coat, already dialing Stan's number.

They've got a criminal to catch.

* * *

><p>It's eleven at night and they still have yet to catch the criminal.<p>

They have been searching since nine this morning and have made it to four different warehouses, all of them empty.

Johnson, according to Sherlock, has intense knowledge of five different warehouses in the greater London area, enough to hide efficiently and undetected.

And Sherlock, being who he is, happens to have a comprehensive list of said warehouses.

The taxi cab pulls up to the last one on the list. As John exits the vehicle he stares at the place they are going to be searching. Warehouse #5, more a factory of some sort, is actually an old, dilapidated building that borders the Thames. Shipping containers litter the area surrounding the building along with various tanks that hold some sort of flammable fuel. The surrounding area is flat and vast pavement that is scattered with abandoned machinery and containers. There a few buildings to John's left, in between them lies a gap that seems to go to another flat arena, from the brief glimpse that John gets, it looks like an abandoned shipping yard, with even more leftover machinery and containers. As they enter the building, neither of them saying anything, John can see through the factory to the Thames. There appears to be a docking system that borders the back of the last warehouse. The shipping containers make a lot more sense. The old business must have dealt with stocking shipping ships or something of that sort.

John shuffles tiredly after the slightly more enthusiastic detective. John hasn't got very high hopes that Johnson is here, being as Sherlock had said this is the last place he would probably be because of obviousness attachment to it.

John decides not to ask about Johnson's attachment to this broken building. He just wants to search the warehouse and then go home for a cuppa and then bed.

They remain together, each armed with their own torchlight, searching the top floors down with precise and planned movements, this is their fifth warehouse after all. John would never have thought 'Warehouse Searching' would ever be a part of his CV but regardless, he's damn good at being thorough.

It's nearing eleven thirty by the time John follows Sherlock mechanically towards the basement, while he keeps his eyes peeled for signs of anyone.

They descend the stairs to the first sub level and it's been a long day and neither of them,or at least John hadn't been, prepared to find Johnson camping out, huddled into a corner in one of the basement levels.

Johnson's head shoot ups and the criminal bolts with ferocious speed and John, without thinking, give chase through as a burst of adrenaline floods his body, Sherlock close behind him.

Johnson, a small ginger man, knows the place well. He twists and turns, maneuvering the corners and the long stretches of hallways with ease. The embezzler takes the blogger deeper and deeper into the warehouse.

At some point, between the twists of corners, Sherlock breaks off.

_"I'm going to catch him when he comes up." _Sherlock thinks and takes the nearest stairs, skipping two at a time, hoping to get towards street level and wait until Johnson exits the warehouse. John just sends acknowledgment into the connection and continues to close in on the criminal.

Except that's when everything changes. Instead of going topside, like Sherlock had predicted, Johnson turns into a stairwell and descends, going further into the bowels of the building. Eventually, the criminal turns onto a floor that John doesn't bothering looking around at the aesthetics. He follows Johnson down a hallway and into a room towards the end. He watches, with surprise as the smaller man suddenly skids to his knees and disappears. John sprints to where the man is no more and looks down. To his general bewilderment his gaze ends up on a hole in the concrete. It looks to have been hacked haphazardly. John stops before the hole, staring down at it for a couple seconds before cursing silently.

He _has_ to catch the man.

Dammit.

John lowers himself so that he's sitting, his legs dangling down in the hole and without hesitating too much, launches himself down.

He lands with a splash about eight feet down, a tingling pain shooting up his legs but he ignores it and looks down.

He's definitely in the sewers, if the concrete walls and tunnel like pathways hadn't given it away, the smell would have.

John clenches his grip around his torch, thank god he had been able to keep a hold of that throughout the chase in the upper levels.

The doctor flashes his beam of light to the left and then to the right, looking for the way that Johnson may have gone.

A vague splashing noise and quick shadow emit from John's left and John bolts after it. He is actively ignoring the rotting sewer smell that assaults his noise as he runs, disturbing the water that's mixed with icky stuff that John absolutely refuses to think about squishing in his shoes, that only comes up to his ankles.

John follows the man's splashing through the various tunnels, twisting and turning around corners, like deja vu. He finally gets to a point where he catches sight of Johnson and John lets the adrenaline surge through him, and he opens up his mind, letting the tendrils of his gift grab onto Johnson. The come to a long, narrow tunnel and John can see the criminal up ahead, Johnson seems to be losing speed and John (full aware of his newly healed ribs and sore legs from running around the warehouse) curses himself for not doing this early. He has this gift, he needs to work around his hangups.

John can hear Johnson's mantra of _"Get out. Get out. Run. Get to the tunnel." _and John sprints after him. He sends calm into the link, hoping to get the man to sleep. He starts to peel back the layers need but Johnson, up ahead, takes an abrupt right.

Not that John needs to be in line of sight for this to work, but it's terribly inconvenient.

John pushes himself whilst still peeling the layers back to send the man to sleep and follows after the criminal.

As John turns the gradual corner, because of his momentum and sheer speed, he is unable to stop, nor catch himself from tumbling over the edge of the open tunnel. The next thing he knows is the rapid rate of how fast he is falling into the semi-darkness below him.

As he falls, the doctor lets out a surprised yell and unfortunately, loses his concentration and lets go of the connection.

His eyes close of their own accord and John is vaguely aware of the beginning sounds of a giant splash before he finds himself surrounded by muffled noises while he is completely and suddenly submerged. Gravity pulls him through the water, until his chest hits the bottom and John flails his arms sluggishly. His limbs cut through the water without harm and he starts to panic for a minute, completely disoriented. After mere seconds, John finally gets enough wits together and brings his hands down, pushing agains the hard grating of the bottom, and forcing himself upward, towards the surface, towards air.

His head emerges from the water with a gasp and he sucks in air avariciously.

His lets his arms surge through the water before finding the bottom with his feet. He plants his shoes at the bottom and realizes that his entire head is still above water, making it about five feet of water.

Small mercies.

He searches around in the water for Johnson, squinting through the darken area, bracing himself for an attack. But none comes, there is no one in the pool with him. As he jerks his head around with a confused frown, John hears a sudden laugh.

The doctor looks up to see Johnson, slinking back from a sliver of a ledge and smirking down at John. The tunnel is about twenty feet up, there is no way that John could get up there and Johnson knows this because the ginger smiles and salutes, which pulls at John for obvious reasons, before turning and running back through the tunnels. John smacks a hand against the water, cutting through the surface in frustration.

"Damnit." He mutters before looking around frantically. The place he fell into, seems to be a dead end of some sort. Its rather medium sized with walls that are mostly concrete but John can see places where there are some instances of rock, as if workers had stopped digging or reinforcing their walls. The whole place looks more like a cavern than an addition to the sewer.

John curses himself and his stupidity, Johnson knows these sewers like the back of his hand, of course he'd been leading John into a trick, a trap. Not to mention, if John had been able to put the man to sleep before they even got to London's underground, he wouldn't have found himself in such a mess. The doctor looks up to see Johnson slink away and John desperately latches onto the man's mind, forcing his calm and even a little bitter resentment into the connection.

However, Johnson must be running because as soon as the ginger man is over 200 yards away, his presence fades and John is forced to give up. One thing he's learned from Sherlock and his 'experiments' is that John has to be familiar with a connection in order to read/invade minds at great distances. Like when John had called upon Mycroft when the detective was shot all those months ago. Or sometimes, if John tries really hard, he can find Lestrade at NSY while he sits in the sitting room at Baker Street.

It's near impossible to maintain a long distance with a fresh mind and now John is severely regretting that limitation of his gift.

John splashes around looking down into the water for his flashlight, hoping that it still works. Sherlock and himself had spent a lot of money on a good torch and John hopes it isn't broken. He sees a light, through the mucky water and dives for it.

His fingers feel around the grating that covers the bottom and clasp the metal rod of the handle. He resurfaces with a triumphant gasp and sees that the light is still working despite the water.

He shines the light against the walls to see if there is any footing he could possible get a hold of but there's nothing. He searches the area a little more and sees a broken ladder off to the side, opposite the tunnel entrance.

John knows nothing about sewers and tunnels underneath London but he hopes the hatch at the top of the ladder is a way out into the street.

He swims over to the ladder and looks at it, the ladder is merely two poles fused into the wall, the rungs closest to the ground are non-existant, disintegrated by water and rust. There is no way he can get a grip on them to climb up. The nearest complete one is at about the same level, if not a bit lower, as the tunnel entrance he had fallen from.

John looks up and pulls at the ladder, that despite its broken rungs, does not budge and he sighs with defeat, pushing down panic and attempts to take stock of his situation.

His eyes gaze the area once again. He can't get out, there is only the hole entrance, some twenty feet up and the ladder that has no rungs. The water appears to be somewhat cleaner than the filth he had been running through and John wonders what that means in terms of what he has literally fallen into. At least it seems this dirty, so minimal risk of infection from just being in the water.

Still, best not to swallow any of it.

He props himself up on the tops of his toes and down again. The water is shallow enough where his entire head remains above the surface and John takes that as a good sigh. Although, there is a slight current of some sort that is pushing the water in a criss cross pattern through the cavern. John grips one of the vertical ladder poles to keep himself in one spot.

The area is open but seems to be a dead end, the last of its tunnel system. But, he still gets enough air. So, he isn't at risk of drowning, suffocating or dying of infection (maybe, probably).

The only downside is, the water is a bit cold, it probably comes from the Thames considering the location, an offshoot of some sort. If he gets out of the pool in a decent amount of time, he shouldn't have to worry about hypothermia.

Key word; Hopefully.

He goes through the list one more time in his head and takes a deep breath. This isn't a life-threatening and most definitely not the worst situation that he's found himself in. He just needs to calm and then call for Sherlock.

_"Sherlock!" _ John closes his eyes and sends the call into the link, he thinks this definitely constitutes as an emergency situation. He feels a familiar twinge of pain start to blossom faintly in the recess of his brains, just what normally happens when he projects his thoughts into the bond.

He makes a note to monitor it, he has to watch how long he keeps the conversation going otherwise he's at risk of passing out and that would be a very bad idea in this situation.

_"John? Where did you go? Johnson's on the street now, running away from me and the building." _The thought sounds frantic but hurried and John can see, through Sherlock's eyes, that the detective is running up on street level and John's glad that Sherlock hadn't gotten dragged into the confusing sewer tunnels.

_"Johnson didn't go up, he went down and now I'm stuck in some sewer cavern." _John sends and his head jolts with a sudden throb before dissipating, but John pushes the alarm aside and continues.

_"Don't let that bastard get away." _John sends with as much commanding force as he can. He isn't at risk and they been after this son of a bitch for weeks. Who knows when they will get another chance?

_"Nonsense, I'm coming to get you out." _Sherlock's thought is coupled with disbelief and disgust at the fact that John would even dare to think that Sherlock would just leave the doctor alone and stuck.

John has always been a stubborn bastard.

He vehemently sends, giving his headache a slight break, unhappiness and bitter hate into the connection, translating to, _"No. Go get him." __  
><em>

_"I'm not leaving you down there, alone." _Sherlock fights and John shakes his head physically, the water sloshing around his body.

_"You've spent weeks trying to find this guy. I'm not at any risk and I'm not going anywhere. Go and get him and then you can come and get me." _John's voice is firm and leaves no room for arguments and he can feel Sherlock stop in his tracks and weigh the pros and cons of his decision.

_"Are you sure?" _There is hesitance there and concern and John just sends a firm, _"Go!" _

John's head lurches with a shudder of pain, the doctor doesn't have much more time if he wants to prevent himself from passing out.

_ "I'm coming back for you." _Sherlock's thought is firm and reassuring and John can see the detective running, hopefully in the direction of Johnson.

_"You better." _John sends one last projection before he pulls to the surface of their link with abrupt force. His head throbs but most of the pain subsides and John massages his temples and lets out a sigh of relief. He doesn't know if he'd be able to handle a constant headache and be stuck in this hellhole at the same time.

John spends the next however many minutes breathing slowly and listening to arbitrary thoughts come through the link. Flashes of pathways and streets, routes that Johnson has taken or may take and John can feel Sherlock's adrenaline and determination bleed through the bond.

He looks around, wondering if he could somehow pass the time with idle escape planning. He sees nothing he hasn't already seen, but he does pat himself down. He can feel his clothes like a solid weight against him but finds nothing except his belt, and his water-logged cellphone that will be no help whatsoever.

He looks up at the ladder again and wonders if he could rig something up that could maybe reach the complete rungs higher up the wall. He gauges the distance seriously for a moment before sighing again. The nearest rung that looks to be intact, is a good fifteen to twenty feet up and there is no amount of jumping, twisting or hope, really, that would bring him to that rung.

John scowls at his helplessness and deflates. He's literally stuck here until someone comes back.

How boring.

He decides to keep by the ladder, preferring not to let the current pull and push him around the pool area. He leans against the metal poles as the last remnants of his headache dissipate completely.

Ten minutes later, his headache has remained absent and he is utterly bored.

Then, there's a sudden noise, an ominous whir that startles John out of his listless, half-trance like stare and just like that, things are about to become not so boring after all.

John notices the water first, the criss-cross pattern has suddenly become fiercer, more aggressive and John has to active hold on to the vertical poles so that he doesn't get dragged around.

The doctor looks around, up first and then at the walls, for the source but there is nothing. He spends another five minutes rapidly searching for the source of the noise.

It isn't until he feels water lapping at his lips that he realizes the water has risen in the last five minutes.

And that sends John into a, very controlled and internal, panic.

Not being a great swimmer to begin with, John doesn't necessarily like being surrounded by water and the fact that he can now feel the metal grating at the bottom of the pool emit a rush of clear water is making the doctor more nervous and causing his fear to rise.

Within ten minutes, when the whirring starting to present, the water has risen six inches, the entirety of John's height and the doctor is forced to wade in the water, using one hand to hold on to the poles and the other to push through the water whilst his feet kick to remain afloat.

He suddenly wonders if this is a good thing, with the water rising, he could reach the tunnel and get out himself.

He's about to send a surge of hope into the bond when he starts to shiver. Distracted he looks down at the water (as if it holds all the answers) and realizes that with the new liquid source coming in, the water has become twice as cold.

He glances up and he wonders if he'll make it before the hypothermia sets in.

_"I've got him John. We're coming to get you."_

The thought surges through the link as John shivers get more violent.

John tries to remain calm and takes deep breaths but he's panicking internally. His mind is whirling with the symptoms and worst case scenarios of hypothermia victims and he can't seem to quell it or shut it off. The dread and the terror course through him at an alarming rate and John can't seem to get a hold of himself. He kicks his legs extra hard and wraps his arms around himself, hugging one of the metal poles to remain stationary.

The cold is making his teeth chatter and his can feel his legs already going numb, despite the fact that he's been kicking them to keep the blood flowing and his body warm. He's starting to feel tired.

This is a all a bit not good.

The water has risen ten feet, just beyond the halfway point and the blogger is already feeling the effects or early hypothermia. His head is starting to feel fuzzy and sleepy.

John shakes his head, ignoring his brain rattling and mentally slaps himself, forcing his own consciousness.

Despite all of this, trying to stay awake, trying to survive, John choose to send feelings of love and happiness into the link, conveying to Sherlock how he feels, because he's morbidly aware that he might (probably) won't get out of this.

_"John. What's going on?" _Sherlock, ever the detective, must have spotted something in John's connection. The doctor's panic is probably bleeding through. It's still raging through despite John's efforts to push it aside. He doesn't want his fear and panic to control him, especially in the last minutes.

_"I'm really cold." _John thinks and sends it along with more feelings of love and adoration.

_"You're cold? We're almost there. Do you know where you are?" _The thought comes to John, whose teeth start to chatter and the doctor sends unhappiness for a no and a snort that pushes water into his face. His head, he just realizes, has been lulling onto his chest because he's brain is feeling fuzzy and the cold is messing with his functions.

Throughout this, he can't help but wondering who 'we' consists of. Did Sherlock bring backup?

_"John. Just hang on. We are coming." _

John tries to hang on to that hope as the water escalates another five feet. John can almost reach the first rung, he's about four feet away. He looks over to the tunnel entrance but that is still another five to ten feet up. If anything, it's going to be the ladder that helps him.

He waits another few minutes, trying to get the water as high as possible and lunges upwards, trying to grab the rung. He can feel his hands graze the metal but they are too wet and slippery and John careens back into the water, submerging himself a few feet under the surface.

He pulls his head above the water, sputtering and coughing slightly before taking deep breaths, panic and fear and helplessness coming to the forefront of his mind, despite the numbing cold.

There is a sudden noise from above him and John looks up at the hatch atop the ladder.

He opens his mouth to yell but nothing comes out, his lips blue and his teeth chattering.

The water has elevated a few inches more and John makes a grab for the rungs of the ladder once more with desperate abandon. This time his fingers latch on and thats when there is a giant scrapping noise coming from above him. The doctor doesn't look, instead he pulls himself up, despite the heaviness of his water soaked clothes.

In quite the gymnastic feat, he is able to bring one leg and then the other up and through the gap between the rungs. He is sitting, both of his hands gripping the metal bars and poles around him, despearately holding on so that he doesn't fall backward into the water some two or three feet below.

Once he gets his breath back he looks up towards the source of the scrapping noise.

He can see a sliver of light come from a crack in the hatch and if he listens carefully, he can hear someone calling his name.

"Dr. Watson!" A familiar voice calls faintly as another scraping noise echoes the cavern. This time, the hatch is removed completely and John is forced to squint, bringing a hand up to shield his face, as a beam of light is shined down upon him. His name is called again and the loudness of it startles John out of his cold and panicky stupor and he starts to clamber up the ladder, first having to maneuver himself so that he can get his legs out of the gap and firmly onto the ladder.

He climbs the long ladder, his clothes heavy and dripping and his teeth and limbs shaking with cold and adrenaline. He has to avoid some instances of shoddy rungs but he manages the twenty feet rather well considering his physical limitations.

He finally gets to the hatch and heaves himself up the last couple of rungs and breaches the cool London air.

There's a sudden hand on his back, gripping his clothes and heaving the doctor out of the hatch and onto the pavement.

John lands on his side, his legs still hanging over the open hole but he doesn't care. Relief washes over him with such force that John can't seem to move and he just wants to lay there for a while.

"Sir? Are you okay? John?" Ah, it's Clarke. The sergeant's voice is panicked and solo, and John can feel the young man pushing him so that John is forced onto his back.

As he's rolling, John wonders where everyone else is at. Surely, Sherlock should be there. The detective did say 'we are coming to get you.'

Once he's on his back, the dark London sky greets him before Clarke's face disrupts the view. But John smiles anyway, noticing something for the first time.

"You called me J-J-John." The doctor blurts, chattering, and in spite of the situation, Clarke blushes, he _blushes._

"Yes, well, you weren't answering, sir." Clarke says shyly, but his eyes are serious as they scan John, looking for injuries. The doctor's head lists to one side as Clarke takes his pulse and John sees the area they are in. In front of them, lay the Thames in all its British glory, but to their sides and backs, there are rows and rows of empty shipping containers, stacked and arranged in a sort of maze. John thinks this might be the abandoned shipping yard he had seen when they first walked into the area, the one between the gaps in the buildings. Although, John doesn't see any buildings now, the containers are too high.

Which begs the question, with all of the containers, and it looks like a labyrinth of random colors and metal, how did they even find him?

No scratch that, how did _Clarke _find him? John cranes his neck and realizes that there is nobody else around. If Clarke is here, surely that means there is other backup? This place should be crawling with officers. Where are they?

There must be a dozen hatches, if they had all spread out and opened each one, how did Clarke choose this specific one?

John comes to this startling form of thought in about two seconds and he eyes the sergeant with nervous caution.

"How d-did you find me?" John asks suddenly as he shivers but he doesn't let that distract him as raises a hand to catch Clarke's bicep in a firm grip. The sergeant tries to pull away, rather gently actually, but John's grip is tight and it stops him. The younger man looks at his shackled bicep and then into John's eyes, his own eyes nervous.

The sergeant begins to shake his head but John's grip tightens on its on accord, but not roughly and John opens his mouth.

"C-Clarke, I need to know." The soldier orders and Clarke shakes his head anyway, so the doctor continues, "We've been d-dancing around this conversation for m-months. Tell me how y-you f-found me tonight." John demands, even though his teeth are chattering and his body shivering, he still manages to use his most commanding 'I'm in charge' voice and Clarke flinches away.

"I could hear you." Clarke says quietly and all John literally can do is let go of the sergeant's arm in shock.

"What d-do you mean?" John blurts out before he can think.

At the same time, thoughts slam into the doctor. Clarke can read John's mind? Another telepath? Since when? Why didn't the man say anything? What does this mean?

Questions and feelings spread like a forest fire through John's head and his nerves and exhaustion are pushed aside as adrenaline and his military training come into play. He surveys the area for the nearest escape route, tensing and testing his limbs for response time.

Clarke notices none of this, he's too busy trying to get John's wet coat and jumper off to really notice a change, to which the doctor is not helping with at all.

"I could hear your emotions. I'm an empath." Clarke sighs with resignation and is finally able to wrestle John out of his sodden clothes.

Just seconds before, John had been trying to find an escape route while he tried to quell his fear and dread, now, John freezes with shock, whipping his head to look at Clarke's face.

This is the last thing John expects to come out of the sergeant's mouth.

"An empath?" John repeats because he doesn't know what else to say. What does that even mean?

"I'm able to feel and/or read other peoples' emotions," Clarke explains looking right into John's eyes, his face completely honest and John's features twist in confusion. "You were projecting very loudly." Clarke says and John remains silent, he couldn't possibly talk if he wanted to.

The sergeant takes that opporunity to radio in their location.

"Lestrade, I've found him, sir."Clarke's says as he lets go of the button on the radio. He twists suddenly and it has John on edge until the man turns around again with an orange blanket in his hand and he wraps it around John's shaking form.

It's then that John notices the supplies around them. Clarke has easily two different kits full of emergency supplies, like he didn't know what state he would find John in, and he probably didn't.

"I was a boy scout." Clarke says to answer John's surprise at the kits but then that has John frowning in confusion again. "Like I said, you project. Loudly." At this, Clarke chuckles a bit before grabbing another blanket and wrapping it around John's lower half.

At Clarke's confession, John immediately shuts down his mind, pulling as many temporary shields up as he can, letting his mind be his own.

_"You've found him?" _Lestrade's tinny voice comes over the radio and John breathes a sigh of relief. As grateful as he is to Clarke for finding him and then giving him blankets, the younger man is an unknown loyalty and John finds himself relieved that a friendly, Lestrade is in the area.

"I don't understand." John finally says, a million questions going through his mind but trying to find the right one to ask is near impossible in the state he is now.

"Sir. I heard you, I followed your panic and I came upon the hatch." Clarke says waving his hand in the direction of the hatch, which John's lower legs are still dangling over, as he radios back that yes he found John and they may need an ambulance (to which John scoffs at).

John opens his mouth to ask something but Clarke just shakes his head. "This is not the time," He begins with a whisper, looking over John's wet form, "nor place. If you want to know, I will tell you, just not now." The sergeant finishes and he looks around cagily, like he's expecting someone to be listening.

_"Is he alive?" _Lestrade's voice comes over the radio again interrupting their conversation, and this time its quieter like he doesn't want people on his end to hear the question or the answer.

Clarke looks at John quizzically while John, pushing aside whatever is going on between them temporarily, looks just as confused.

"Yes." Clarke sends back with confidence and there is a sudden shrilling in the area. It takes a bit for John to realize that it's Clarke's phone.

The sergeant shuffles his hands around, un-velcroing a pocket on his vest and taking out his phone.

"Hello," He begins and then nods. Without anything else, the phone is thrusted at John and Clarke looks suddenly relieved when the doctor takes it with surprise. Whether its because he doesn't want to be on the phone with whoever called or he doesn't have to handle a conversation with John on the topic anymore.

Regardless, John just puts the phone up to his ear, a full body shiver going through him despite the blankets. He should really get off the pavement.

"H-Hello." John stutters, chills going through him.

"Oh thank god. John." Sherlock's voice comes through the phone and John is even more confused. They haven't talked on the phone in, well, probably ever, really.

"Sherlock, w-what-" John begins before the detective interrupts him.

"I couldn't feel you." Sherlock says with a harsh whisper and John's brows furrow. "You just went silent. I thought you were...I...I thought something had happened."

Then it clicks. John had just put shields up because of Clarke, he must have forced the bond out.

"I'm s-s-sorry, Sherlock." John says without hesitation, feeling a bit bad. "I h-had to- well, n-never mind I'm fine." John says eyeing Clarke while he attempts to placate the younger man who scoffs but John can tell how worried he is. "I'll t-take care of it, y-yeah?" John says and Sherlock hums in the affirmative, all the while John watches what he says, still not entirely keen on Clarke.

While he's been on the phone, John's kept his eyes focused on Clarke and so far all the sergeant has done is radio in their location and get confirmation that they were on their way.

John focuses, still hearing Sherlock's breathing, although its picked up because he's started moving hurriedly to John's location. He keeps his shields firmly up, not wanting Clarke to get even a tiny glimpse of all the emotions that are raging through his brain.

Which happen to be a metric fuckton of emotions;

Shame and guilt: For making Sherlock think he may have died, for letting Johnson get away to begin with.

Distrust: Not knowing what Clarke's deal is or if he can trust the man.

Relief: This one is the most potent, predominantly because he's not dead.

However, the bond between Sherlock and himself hasn't been offline for months and now that John's attention has been brought to it, John can feel an emptiness, a hallow feeling that he doesn't like at all, he intends to remedy that. He keeps his shields up but maneuvers around his brain and takes a second to find out Sherlock in the throng of minds coming towards him.

The lilac/honey meet him and John latches on, the bond is instantaneous and he can hear a sigh of relief come from Sherlock across the phone.

The next thing he knows is the click of the dial tone and John is pulling it away from his ear, looking at the screen in disgust.

He doesn't harbor the grudge too long because he is suddenly swept up in happiness, relief, shame, guilt, love, bliss and concern coming from Sherlock.

He absentmindedly hands Clarke back his phone and sends his own feelings back, mostly love and relief.

_"John." _

John smiles as Sherlock's thoughts brush against him and they can hear shouts echoing throughout the yard, bouncing off the metal conduits.

John looks over at Clarke briefly but the sergeant is looking towards the place that the voices are coming from while he shift uncomfortably and awkwardly.

Clarke's never been awkward around anyone that John's noticed.

"I'm a t-t-telepath." John states because he can and he really wants to know if he should be worried about Clarke and if the man is there to hurt them or worse, be a mole for Moran.

John pushes that thought away because he can't even begin to fathom what he would do to Clarke if that were the case.

"I know." Clarke says, eyeing the gap between the containers, where the officers will probably emerge from, nervously, "Or well, I knew you were more than an empath."

John raises his eyebrows. John, before he had gotten his gift, didn't even know things like this existed and he's only met one other with a special brain. And Moriarty turned out to be _such _a charmer.

"I d-d-don't know if I c-c-can trust you." John says because he's sick of feeling weary and cautious. It's exhausting.

"I know." Clarke says with a pathetically small voice and if John were any less of a man he would have caved at the sad voice and the probable puppy eyes that Clarke is hiding.

"We need to t-talk this out." John says and Clarke looks up with resigned alarm but another violent shiver courses though his body distracting the doctor. He really needs to move, the blankets are good for trapping his body heat, but they are temporary, he's got to do something about his condition and soon.

The voice are getting louder and soon Sherlock will breach the labyrinth of shipping containers.

John arches his back, craning his head to look at the gap. "But not now." John says looking straight into Clarke's emerald green ones and the empath nods, a quick affirmative assent and just in time because Sherlock, followed by Lestrade and then other officers emerge from the maze, heading straight towards them.

The _"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. John. I'm sorry." _reach John long before Sherlock's body does, the detective eventually skids to a stop and then falls to his knees beside John in one, long graceful movement that has John shocked at the fluidity of it. And the bastard probably did it without ruining his trousers.

The genius's hand automatically go to John's only exposed skin, his cheeks. The genius cups John's cheek gently but firmly, pushing his warmth and love into the tactile connection.

It's nowhere near a cure for John's early stages of hypothermia but its working for a bandaid of sorts. Remorse, guilt, and shame are pushed into the bond, like a mantra over and over and John has to block them in a way, try to push them aside so he can focus on not passing out from the cold and the exhaustion and there sheer amount of emotions coming from the genius.

_"John." _The detective calls and John tears his eyes away from Clarke, who has started packing up his stuff and backing away from the couple, and finally looks into the stormy gray eyes. While Sherlock's face is blank, the genius's eyes are full of fear and anger (for himself) and shame. John brings a trembling hand to cup the man's cheek and sends calming happiness and reassuring content. _"I'm fine. It's okay. I'm fine."_

"Jesus, John," Lestrade says, catching up to the small group surrounding John, huffing a little bit from exerting himself from the running, "You and trouble seriously need to stop meeting like this."

"Oui, s-s-hove off, mate." John responds lightly with a chuckle as the DI kneels beside him, effectively causing Clarke to move away from them fully and John nonchalantly strains his head to find out where the sergeant has gone. But, more and more people have shown up and the young man is lost in the crowd. John curses internally and focuses back on what Lestrade is saying.

"How bad is it?" Lestrade asks, and even though he can guess the ordeal that John has gone through, he still values the man's opinion as a doctor and for that, John is rather grateful and its a reason why he likes the DI.

"N-not to b-bad." John starts, trying to suppress a violent shiver that escapes anyway which causes Sherlock to start unbuttoning his coat. "S-symptoms of beginning hypothermia, I j-just need to g-get home and have a w-warm shower and even warmer b-blankets."

That's not necessarily the best case scenario, John should really go to a hospital but John flinches internally at the thought, he doesn't want to go back, not so soon after the incident with Moran. Besides, it's only a mild case and he can heal just as fast with a hot shower and curling around Sherlock as he could with a warm saline in a hospital stay overnight.

Sherlock, somehow, is aware of John's avoidance of the hospital and wisely chooses to say nothing as he takes off his coat and wraps it tightly around John's body, adding extra warm on top of the slightly dampening blankets, tucking it into his sides.

The DI on the other hand...

"Pull the other one." Lestrade barks, his eyebrows raising comically. "You know you need a hospital."

"Greg, it's fine." John says, his eyes darting around.

Now that Sherlock is here, John is succumbing to his exhaustion, he just wants to go home. So with a deep breath, John looks at the detective.

"Help me sit up." He whispers and Sherlock nods silently. Sherlock's arm wraps around his shoulder as John forces his upper body to become upright, using one hand to twist tightly with Sherlock's shirt. The coat and blankets fall into his lap but he ignores them. Instead, he stills for a moment because his head is feeling dizzy and lightheaded and the genius must have known this or anticipated because he doesn't force John to move, he just let's the doctor hang on, waiting for it to pass.

John smiles gratefully and sends thanks, love, and safety into the link which causes Sherlock to look down at the man curled into his chest and return the smile. After a few seconds, John grips the coat and blankets and forces himself to stand. Lestrade flails a bit, not sure if the doctor will need additional help or not. Turns out, its not needed, Sherlock's grip has tightened and it's relatively easy to guide the older man into a standing position and soon John is standing, albeit a bit wobbly, on his own two feet.

He looks over to the DI and smiles smugly. "See, I'm good, I just need a cab and a cuppa." John says and Lestrade sighs exasperatedly, before he turns away, barking orders to the other officers that have gathered around.

All the while, his mind projects, _"Bloody idiots the both of them. Match in heaven, that." _

John just smiles to himself and waits patiently as Sherlock moves suddenly to wrap his coat around the doctor's wet form and John sighs and revels in the woolen warmth.


	11. Chapter 11: Lestrade's Friendly Warning

Alright, shortish chapter.

Mistakes are my own.

Enjoy

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>John and Sherlock make their way through the throng of people that have gathered -Lestrade had said that their statements could wait until the morning- and into the labyrinth of metal container carcasses.<p>

John is leaning heavily into the detective's side but Sherlock doesn't, or chooses, not to say anything about it. John can feel the pure relief coming across the bond and he lets it warm him.

As soon as they get out of the container maze, they are met with even more officers and John wonders just how much backup Sherlock had called. Surely, there wasn't a need for all these people.

Sherlock is looking down at the doctor and sees the confusion on John's face.

_"You were underground in a maze of sewers. I, unfortunately, didn't have the knowledge of knowing the pathways. There were too many places you could be."_

The thought is full of shame, self-loathing and anger and John doesn't know if its because Sherlock had to call for help or because Sherlock hadn't know the tunnels in the first place.

John doubts he will ever know, he's honestly still reveling in the relief of _not _being stuck in that cavern anymore.

"All hands on deck." The doctor mumbles and the detective chuckles lightly, John's lightheartedness chiseling away some of the more negative emotions that Sherlock is feeling.

_"Something along those lines." _

As they make their way through the officers, most greeting them, well John at least, with smiles they finally get closer to the street and someone had been nice enough to call them a cab.

As he makes his way to the cab he sees movement out of the corner of his eye.

Clarke is standing some yards away, not close enough for John to hear what he's saying, but he can see the sergeant surrounded by a big group, people clapping him on the back and talking amongst each other.

Suddenly, maybe because the younger man can still hear John's emotions (even though the doctor is pretty sure his shields are holding, but John's never been good at those to begin with) or if Clarke just feels the gaze, whatever the reason, Clarke's head whips up and looks in John's direction.

Their eyes meet and John nods jerkily and with confidence, as if conveying that he will be getting a hold of Clarke in the near future.

He feels like he can hear Clarke swallowing from where he stands, the sergeant looks nervous but he just nods back, his head bobbing shakily with resignation.

With that John turns and gets into the cab, completely oblivious to the fact that Sherlock had noticed and narrowed his eyes at the exchange.

* * *

><p>"Jesus, Clarke. How'd you find him?" Justin Sully, a young blonde, beat cop that Clarke's worked with occasionally, before he got promoted, gently smacks the sergeant on the back. Sully had just happened to be in the area when he got radioed for all possible officers to respond to a 'Sherlock call'.<p>

Clarke, who had had his back to Sully, jumps faintly at the sudden contact but it, thankfully, goes unnoticed. Despite his constant and internal panicky thoughts, that have been swirling around in his head most of the night, Clarke just shakes his head friendliness and chuckles.

"I, um, I'm just lucky, I guess." Clarke says with a shrug and the man chuckles along with him.

"Lucky, yeah right." The man barks and Clarke looks around to see some of the surrounding officers come near him, forming a lazy, non-threatening circle. "You must have a sixth sense or something." He continues which causes Clarke to burst out laughing, and thankfully everyone else in group does too, so his reaction isn't too conspicuous.

If only Sully knew how close to the truth he actually is.

"I'm just glad we found Dr. Watson." Someone Clarke doesn't recognize pipes up and the other men nod enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I can't imagine how the freak would've taken it if you hadn't." Another says and Clarke can't help but flinch at the use of the word 'freak', now that he's met the man (and really, even before that) he's uncomfortable with how people insult Sherlock Holmes.

If they felt the little bit of self-hatred that comes from the consulting detective when someone calls him freak, these men would be uncomfortable too.

He doesn't laugh with the rest of them and desperately wants to change the subject, away from name calling and hitting too close to Clarke's true gift.

The men keep talking and there is a sudden and very brief surge of apprehension that breaks through his, once, sturdy shields. He recognizes the emotion pattern instantly and looks up.

Just about to get into a cab, Watson stands there looking at him. Clarke stills slightly but doesn't feel any emotions come from the doctor, just like before when Clarke had confessed to what he is.

It looks to be that the doctor knows some form of shielding, even though they appear to be weak.

John doesn't make any movement to come towards Clarke, to which the sergeant is grateful and, instead, just nods. Its a firm, jerk of the head that tells Clarke that they will be having a conversation in the near future.

Clarke wishes and had wished that he could've have ignored John Watson for the rest of his life. But that would imply that Clarke's life is fair and he should know by now, especially with his past experiences, that his life will never be easy, and especially not fair.

Clarke tramples that train of thought before his past can take over his present day emotions and thoughts.

He just stares back at the older man and nods, resigned to the fact that he's going to have to talk to the telepath and even, have to explain his life and who he is.

And that's not a conversation that Clarke is exactly looking forward to.

John sees the acknowledgment and without anything further gets into the cab.

Just by pure luck, his eyes travel to Sherlock's face.

Sherlock Holmes is almost as much of an enigma than Watson. He knows John Watson is special and has a gift and therefore, Clarke knows what to expect.

But, Sherlock isn't anything like Watson, and for some reason the man's emotions are so erratic that Clarke doesn't know when to expect them. There are times, when the consulting detective's emotions will permeate through his shields and the sergeant will get flashes of hurt or excitement depending on the man's current train of thought, but then there are other times, and sometimes Clarke could be standing right next to the man and there is nothing, completely silent, just like how its supposed to be.

His emotions and projections are just as unpredictable as the man himself.

That's why, when his eyes meet Sherlock's, he's surprised by what he sees there and even more surprised by the potency of what he feels. Relief, anger, shame, fear, dread, pain, love, trust, nervousness, anxiety, joy, uneasiness, distress, and, the one that is directed right at Clarke, gratefulness. (To which Clarke is startled into wondering if Sherlock knows what the sergeant is. John couldn't have told the detective already? Could've he?)

The sheer power and force of the emotions almost makes the sergeant stagger backwards, but Clarke is able to (barely) hold his ground and force his head to give another shaky nod in acknowledgement at the detective, who turns and follows John into the cab.

Clarke watches it take off in a haze, waiting for the emotions to fade away, and in that moment, he realizes something.

Everyone has got it wrong, Sherlock Holmes does, in fact, feel. He feels so deeply and with such intensity that he hides it away, under his 'sociopathic' behavior and fools everyone in the process.

Well, everyone but John Watson.

John Watson, Clarke shakes his head at the gradually fading cab. Doctor and telepath, the man who is slowly tearing everything Clark's worked so hard to keep together. The doctor is the only person that Clarke has met, besides his mother (and sometimes Sherlock) who has been able to tear through the sergeant's shields with viscous accuracy.

Those two, Sherlock and John, waltz into his life and everything he's known has been shaken up. He remembers the first time that he had caught on to the fact that Watson is different. Being summoned to Lestrade's office in the first week of his promotion where he met the famous Sherlock Holmes and finding himself in awe of the man's brillance.

At the time, he had only viewed John as an irritation. He had entered the room and stood still while Sherlock flung his observations and he had gotten shock from the doctor.

Emotions going through his shields, after such a long time of 'emotional abstinence' had been annoying to Clarke. But, he didn't show it, he just assumed it was a fluke day. He has those every now and again, although he hadn't had one for a while by that point.

Sometimes he just get rattled and startled or his routine is disrupted and he's able to pick random emotions from the people he's around.

And meeting Sherlock Holmes is definitely considered a 'disruption in his routine.'

As soon as he had heard the consulting detective's observations (and he had gotten rid of the baby lotion that night because he spent the rest of his day rubbing at his neck absentmindedly) he had gotten the information he needed and left.

Not thinking twice about John, until later that night, when they were called to the docks and John had obviously been strangled to some extent.

John Watson, despite his random emotions that would break through Clarke's shields, and at this point he thought it was still just a fluke day, (having to deal with Holmes twice in one day would cause a mental disruption with anybody) so the sergeant just ignored it and listened to Sherlock's rants and got to know the doctor, thus eventually coming to like the man, enough to be comfortable with him.

In fact, it wasn't until the following day, after Sherlock had dragged him (by the collar) into Lestrade's office and then proceeded to get into a shouting match with Anderson and Donovan for some reason, and DI's Gregson and Dimmock were there and John had come in looking disheveled and half asleep, with severely impressive bedhead, that Clarke realized something was wrong.

Despite the burst of panic he had felt randomly with John and Sherlock out of the room, it wasn't until he felt a presence in his brain, that something just clicked for the sergeant.

John Watson wasn't a fluke, or normal in any sense.

Clarke remembers whipping his head around, trying to find the source before he realized that Watson had been looking at him dubiously. His shields went into overdrive and all he wanted to do was run.

Thankfully, seconds later Holmes had dragged Watson away and Clarke was able to go back to work, even though he spent the rest of the day in a state of worried distraction.

He spent the next months actively avoiding the doctor. He knew the doctor had a gift, some sort of power and it makes the sergeant wary and apprehensive. He can't let the man get close, what if John is just like the men from when he was younger.

A sudden chuckling emits from the group and Clarke looks around and adds his chuckle, even though he doesn't know what they are talking about. By now, Sherlock's emotions have faded and Clarke mentally shakes his head to dispel his own thoughts and, instead, moves to focus on the events of tonight.

He hadn't been scheduled to work tonight. He, instead, was focusing on his family and spending a night in with his wife and baby boy, Melissa and Ian.

It had been a very domestic and happy night, he had just fixed himself a bedtime cuppa and was going about the flat, in the process of turning the lights off so he could snuggle next to his wife and actually get a decent night of sleep before work in the morning. He passed the sitting room and then Ian's room, poked his head in to see his little man sleeping soundly in his crib. Just as he lifted the covers and was about to slip into bed, his phone, sitting on the bedside table, had vibrated with intensity. He checked and was extremely surprised to see he had gotten a text from Sherlock, and he doesn't even know how the man had gotten his number.

It had read 'In trouble, warehouse #5, need help, Chasing Johnson, life or death - SH'

At 'In trouble,' Clarke had been tearing off his sweats and had started changing into something more work appropriate. He had been briefed on the Johnson case a couple of days ago and the potential places Holmes had thought the man may be. He wasn't aware that he was going to look for him tonight.

But he really shouldn't be surprised as he is, this is Sherlock Holmes after all.

He had kissed his sleeping wife on the forehead, grabbed his wallet, keys and shoes and bustled from the flat, calling for a cab.

He had come running and ended up being the second to arrive, much to Lestrade's surprise.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to appear, dragging a struggling Johnson in tow, the criminal's face a little beat up and swollen.

Lestrade and Clarke had looked at each other and had chosen not to say anything. Instead, they decided to ask Sherlock why he had called in backup.

Apparently, Clarke and Lestrade's text had been different because Lestrade, in addition to showing up, had called in for all available backup, and after Holmes had told them that John was trapped somewhere underground and Sherlock didn't know where, Lestrade had to amend on the radio to involving a search and rescue team and informing all those attending that it was Sherlock Holmes related.

(And Clarke still can't get over the fact that they have codes for things related to Sherlock Holmes)

Not two minutes later, most of the officers having already been on their way, the place in front of the broken building housed multiple panda cars and at least three dozen officers.

Lestrade gave the orders and people were split into groups to search the warehouse for entrances to the sewers while others went into surrounding streets, looking and opening up sewer covers.

It wasn't until Clarke's party was in the sub levels of the building that Clarke felt the surges of panic.

He had stopped dead, causing some of his group members to look at him weird but he just told them he felt suddenly sick and had to get top side.

They all nodded uncaringly and moved further, ignoring the sergeants distressed and hurried movements.

In reality, Clarke had followed the panic and the fear back through the building, up the stairs and out of the entrance.

John's panic flowed through him and the sergeant had to take a second to calm himself. It had been a long time since he's had to find someone based off of their emotions, especially someone with this level of potency and urgency.

As he opens his eyes, that he didn't know had closed in the first place, he turns his head to the right. Between two buildings, there had been a gap, a sort of alley and Clarke just knew that John had been through there. He took off running stopping by one of the police cars that is unlocked and taking out two emergency kits. He bolted through the alleyway and stopped short of the intimidating shipping containers.

What a cluster-fuck.

He knew that John was on the other side of the wall and the probable maze of shipping containers. As he darted into walkway that had cut through the middle of the metal rows, he had hoped that the people who had put them here had a shred of common sense and made only one pathway and no dead end offshoots.

Regardless, he relied on John's panic to get him through and eventually he got to the other side. Vast, empty pavement that overlooked the Thames, had met him and Clarke clutch the bags in his hands and greedily searched the area surrounding him, his head whipped back and forth urgently. John's panic made him feel silently frantic. There had seemed to be nothing there, just random forklifts and more shipping containers. He had squinted in the semi-darkness, using an overhead lamppost as his only source of light.

Finally, after a long time, Clarke had spotted a manhole cover. He jogged to it, crashed to his knees - letting the kits go to the ground haphazardly- and went about opening it, all the while he called for John.

Once he finally got the hatch open, he had looked down to see a wet, struggling John Watson start to climb the ladder.

From there, he continued to watch John climb up, his enter form shivering and dripping and then he grabbed the man, hauling him out. He checked the man over and eventually was made to confess who and what he is.

Clarke shakes his head again at his reminscing. There is nothing he can do about it now, John knows, and Sherlock too probably, he just has to trust the doctor.

He looks around at the group of men, being caught in his memories had only really taken less than a minute and no one has noticed so the sergeant sighs in relief.

They are still talking about Sherlock Holmes and how John Watson has tamed the untamable.

All Clarke can think is that John Watson may be the man that has the ability to destroy him and everything he's overcome to achieve his life, his family and his job.

If Clarke had been a coward, he would seriously consider running.

He doesn't get to dwell on John Watson and the man's sudden complicating appearance in his life for too long.

_"Clarke!"_ Lestrade's voice comes through the radio and it echoes throughout all of the radios of the assembled group of men. They all turn to look at him and Clarke hurries to answer it.

"Yes, sir?" He says with confidence, nodding politely and smiling his dismissal as he turns away from the group of men slightly.

"Report to me." Lestrade's authoritarian voice barks over the radio and Clarke clamps down on his panic. What does the DI want with him?

"On my way, Sir." Clarke responds regardless, and the group snickers with amusement while they 'ooh' at Clarke getting called by the boss. Clarke just shrugs at them, flipping off Sully in particular because the man is the loudest and jogs away.

He goes through the gap in the alley again and through the metal shipping container until he comes out the other side. There are less officers around now, compared to before when he had been here originally. Most of the remaining men look at him with proud smiles that make Clarke feel uncomfortable even though he technically was the 'hero' of the day.

He scans the area and finds Lestrade, jogging over to him.

The salt-and-pepper haired man is slightly separated from the majority of the officers, standing upon the opened hatch with a concerned frown.

"Sir?" Clarke says hesitantly, wondering what the DI is doing/looking at, while his insides twirl with anxiety and nervousness.

"It's funny." That's all Lestrade says, he doesn't move or even look at Clarke.

After a full minute, with Lestrade not continuing or moving really, Clarke decides to break the tense silence. "Funny, sir?"

"Yeah," Lestrade shakes his head, as if in a daze, "It's funny that there was no one assigned to this area." Lestrade states and looks up at Clarke. The DI's eyes bore into the sergeant. "And yet you end up here, and what's more is that you find John Watson here." The older man looks down through the hole and into the water below before looking back into Clarke's bright green eyes.

"I-I," Clarke begins, shifting his gaze, but he forces his body to remain still and confident, not giving in to his nerves, all the while he's trying to find any sort of explanation that would be semi-believable.

"It's good, however," Lestrade begins, and his posture is taut with seriousness and he stares into Clarke, willing the man to understand something important. "That Sherlock texted you and told you to check this area," Lestrade continues, "Even though you shouldn't have ditched your group."

Clarke is standing stock still in complete shock. He can't seem to find his words to respond. What? What is going on? Lestrade is covering for him? Does Lestrade know? How?

And people give the DI grief for being dense.

"We work as a team, Clarke, no more lone wolf shit." And there, that is the real reason that Clarke is here, talking with Lestrade. The DI, either doesn't care or wants to have the benefit of the doubt to what or who Clarke is. As Lestrade tries convey his real message through his expressions and double meanings of his words, Clarke begins to understand.

He's had experience with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson's solo act and he doesn't want to see someone else fall into it, hell John wouldn't have been in this situation if Sherlock had backup from the start.

The DI is worried, about Clarke and what he's capable of, not of his gift, no. Lestrade is worried how far Clarke is willing to do if needs present themselves. He's worried he has another Holmes on his hand.

"I'm a team player, sir." Clarke says because he knows what Lestrade is looking for, and nods very deliberately in acknowledgement of Lestrade's double meaning.

Clarke is not someone who goes looking for trouble, and he definitely doesn't use his gift for 'good.' He rarely uses it and would prefer not to have it at all, in the utmost honesty. in reality.

Lestrade nods and gives a sigh of relief.

"You did a good job, Micah." Lestrade says with soft pride, using Clarke's christened name to convey how serious he is.

"Thank you sir." Clarke says and this is why he likes his boss. The man cares and worries but also acknowledges when someone does a good job.

"John and Sherlock are very close to me," Lestrade's tone is still soft but there is a level of tenseness, like Lestrade constantly worries about the two of them. Who is Clarke kidding? Lestrade is a mother hen, he is probably always worried about them, "I'm not just thanking you on a professional but, also on a personal level as well, for finding him." And this should be awkward but it isn't, Lestrade is so sincere and maintains eye contact, but Clarke has a feeling there is something that Lestrade wants to say, something more but doesn't or can't divulge it.

Does Lestrade know about John? Clarke wonders this and looks at the DI with internal suspicion. It would make sense, why the DI is so protective of the detective and his doctor and why he knows there is something different of Clarke.

Then, if he knows about John, why hasn't he just flat out asked about Clarke?

The sergeant doesn't get his answer, instead Lestrade turns, stepping away from the manhole, his back to the Thames and walking towards Clarke.

He strolls over, coming close to Clarke, so close that their shoulders are inches away from brushing against each other.

He leans over and whispers, his breath hot against Clarke's ear, "One more thing. I may not want or need to know, so I won't push it." Lestrade begins and Clarke tenses, a whole body movement that freezes the man. "But that doesn't mean that Dr. Watson or Sherlock will let it go. And the doctor has his ways of finding things out." Even though the words appear threatening, Lestrade says them causally and with a friendly warning, like Clarke should start preparing for the inevitable.

All Clarke can think is, well, Lestrade definitely knows about Watson, and probably in turn, him, and that makes Clarke very apprehensive for obvious reasons.

Regardless, he nods, looking straight ahead and Lestrade claps him on the shoulders with a friendly smile. "Good Job, and I mean that."

With that Lestrade walks away, calling it a wrap and everyone should go home.

Clarke is the last one to leave the area, wondering, and worrying, what the next few days have in store for him.


	12. Chapter 12: Clarke's Story

Sorry this took so long. I had work, then school, then the flu. YUCK.

Moving on...

Heads up: I'm going to be playing with different characters and different conversations between more characters. Like Sherlock and Lestrade and of course John and Clarke.

Eventually or at least hopefully, I want to get a conversation between Clarke and Sherlock and even Clarke and Mycroft (with threatening Mycroft of course, that could be really fun.)

And of course, more peril and Moran.

DUN DUN DUN.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>Sherlock has to basically push John from the cab, the shivering doctor had almost passed out in the cab from exhaustion. John grumbles halfheartedly but gets the memo because he opens the cab door and walks sluggishly towards the front of their Baker Street flat, leaving Sherlock to pay the fee.<p>

John pats himself down, looking for his keys, only to realize that they are in his jacket that Clarke took off.

Damn.

He wonders where his jacket is now, has Clarke kept it? Thrown it? His phone was in his pockets as well, but John figures his water clogged technology is just about as useful as he is right now.

He's a shivering, cold, exhausted mess.

Double Damn.

Sherlock finally catches up and grips John's elbow gently before pulling out his own keys and unlocking the door to Baker Street. They don't talk as they make their way, as quiet as possible as to not wake Mrs. Hudson, up the seventeen steps to their flat. John stumbling slightly while Sherlock remains a steady presence behind him.

Sherlock doesn't even stop in the sitting room, despite John's protests for tea. The detective shoves the older man into their bedroom. The detective strips his warm coat off John, to which the doctor whimpers at the loss of heat, before moving to untie and remove John's shoes.

_"Strip." _The command comes and if it had been any other time, John would have smiled cheekily but now, he has to force his limbs to take off his sodden clothes while Sherlock goes about finding the warmest clothes either of them own.

Once John is naked, Sherlock comes back with boxers, thick sweats and a thick jumper. He pushes and pulls the clothes onto John's body, even though John is grumbling and grunting with the force of Sherlock's help.

Although, with his shivering and chattering, he wouldn't be much help anyway.

Once his clothes are on and John instantly feels a bit warmer, Sherlock pushes the man to lay flat on his back before straightening and thinking, _"Stay. I'm getting you tea."_

John scoffs, Sherlock making tea (yeah right), but obeys nonetheless and even gets under the covers, letting them come all the way up to his ears and curling himself into the fetal position to gather as much warmth as possible.

That's how Sherlock finds him minutes later, the steaming cup of tea in his hand.

_"John." _

A cup is being pressed to his lips and John sips at the lukewarm liquid happily. He hears the small clink of the tea cup hitting the wooden bedside table before more feelings pass through the link.

_"John." _The thought is full of endless emotions but John, dazedly, decides to hone in on the love and safety that seem to be the strongest.

He feels the bed dip and Sherlock's long, lithe body settle in behind him. Long arms wrap around his torso, pulling John backwards into the chest of the genius.

John sighs contently and allows his body to relax, his shivering and chattering have lessen somewhat, becoming less and less violent.

_"I'm sorry, John." _Sherlock thinks after a few minutes of silence. John, who eyes had been closed and his breathing deep and even, frowns in confusion. He forces his body to turn, despite the bone-chilling cold and aches that are spasming through his body. He finally settles, his body facing Sherlock's, who hasn't let his grip go and proceeds to huddle John closer.

_"This wasn't your fault." _John thinks briefly, ignoring the slight twitch of pain in his head. It's worth it when Sherlock's eyes look up from their defeated stare in the middle of the doctor's chest. The liquid smoke is full of pain, love, remorse, and guilt. The emotions are shadowed throughout the link, creating a terrifying echo in a way.

_"I could- I should have-" _Sherlock starts but John puts a finger to the lips of the younger man, even though Sherlock's mouth didn't move. He metaphorically shushes the man and brushes his own lips across Sherlock's for a quick reassuring kiss.

"I told you to go. I knew what I was getting myself into." John says quietly but he can read Sherlock's emotions, he knows the man isn't convinced. "You caught him. You did it." John tries to stir to the positive of the night.

_"Yes, but look at the cost." _Sherlock thinks gravely and John snakes his hands under the covers so that he can grip the genius's hand.

"It's not that bad." John says quietly, bringing Sherlock's clasped hand to his chest, gripping it tightly.

Sherlock, keeping his hand where it is, pulls his head back slightly so that he can effectively narrow his eyes at the doctor with incredulity. _"Not that bad? John, you were stuck in a sewer full of cold water from the Thames, almost succumbing to hypothermia."_

It doesn't take a genius to recognize the bitter bewilderment of the thought.

"Early stages," John grumbles bitterly but Sherlock sends the emotional equivalent of a glare and John sighs. "Yes, okay, but I didn't. I'm even loads more warmer than before." John says patiently. "It's fine. I'm fine, we're fine. Johnson is behind bars. One point for us."

_"John this isn't some game, this is your life."_ Sherlock thinks with agitation and John wonders if the detective realizes how hypocritical he's being right now. He raises his eyebrows without a conscious thought, to which Sherlock catches.

_"It's different now, John and you know it." _With that thought, John realizes that Sherlock is getting more and more angry and overwhelmed with tonights events and John finally concedes the point to avoid a blowout.

And even so, the detective is right, ever since John's been back from the dead, Sherlock conducts his cases differently. He's still brilliant and gets them done in the same amount of time but now he just is aware of John's health and sometimes even his own. He prioritizes differently. And John has even heard him think about some of his cases as merely 'jobs'.

"Okay," He says, squeezing the hand against his chest. "I'm sorry. You're right. It was horrible but we got the bad guy and neither of us died."

_"It was close enough." _Sherlock thinks bitterly and John shakes his head.

"Yes, but I didn't." John emphasizes and looks directly into Sherlock's liquid, steel eyes. "Okay?"

_"John-"_

"Okay?" John interrupts, a little more forcefully before succumbing to a yawn that disrupts the sternness of his voice but the John won't let his exhaustion take over until he gets this resolved.

The bond is dripping with irritation and unwillingness but John just pokes at Sherlock's head with forcefulness.

_"Yes. Okay. Fine. You aren't dead." _The last bit seems a bit forced but John doesn't mention it. Sherlock, after all these months, still has problems with admitting that he thought John had been dead.

"Good." John says, snuggling closer to Sherlock, causing the man's head to lift up silently so John can tuck his body as close as possible. Sherlock's free hand comes up to stroke John's, still wet, hair.

Another yawn escapes John's lips and Sherlock squeezes tighter.

_"Go to sleep, John. You are warm and safe now." _Sherlock thinks and John nods sleepily. He's warm and his shivers are under control now, he should be out of the danger zone, enough to sleep without risk of not waking up.

So, he nods sleepily and starts to doze.

Except, a half an hour later and sleep still hasn't claimed him. His mind decides to swirl and whirl with thoughts and emotions, keeping him in a half daze that he slips in and out of restful consciousness. It seems that despite the overwhelming exhaustion the doctor is feeling, John is still alert.

_"John. What is it?" _Sherlock eventually asks, fully aware of John's _not sleeping _state.

John jostles his head, trying to shake it into a clear form of thought, "I can't seem to stop thinking." The doctor says bewildered, with a touch of self-loathing and a shrug of his shoulders.

_"About what?" _Sherlock seems curious and caring and open and John melts into it.

But, what is he thinking about? Well, being stuck in the sewers and thinking he was going to die in there, for one. He's also thinking about how much he loves Sherlock, especially when the man spends time cuddled around him and keeping him warm. He's thinking about going into Scotland Yard tomorrow to give his statement and even though he's accepted what happened, he's not necessarily over it, the panic and fear and he definitely doesn't want to relive it.

But all of those are not what's keeping him up.

"Clarke." John finally says quietly and Sherlock sighs, continuing to stroke John's head. Clarke is what keeping John's mind from shutting down enough for sleep. The man that John knows nothing about. The man that could be harmful to John's life. The mystery that surrounds the sergeant.

_"What is he?" _Sherlock asks, his tone rather quiet as well.

"He says he's an empath." John whispers, letting his thoughts swirl, the information that he learned from Clarke mixed with things he knows about Moriarty. "He says he can feel people's feelings."

John sense the curiosity spike through the tactile connection and he smiles despite himself.

_"That's how he found you."_ Sherlock thinks and John nods.

"He said I was projecting very loudly." John states rather bitterly in explanation.

_"So you brought up the shields you've been working on." _Sherlock thinks and John knows the detective is working through the night.

_"That's why the link cut off suddenly."_ Sherlock thinks and John nods, adding a few surges of shame and remorse for apologies for cutting Sherlock out in the first place.

Sherlock shakes his head gently. _"No need for apologies, John. It makes sense now. You were just protecting yourself." _Then there is burst of happiness and calm coming through to John and the doctor smiles.

_"I still don't see how there is a problem." _Sherlock thinks and everything in John halts, frozen with bewilderment.

"What do you mean you don't see a problem?" John whispers harshly and he can feel Sherlock's grip tighten marginally. "How can we trust him? Who is he? I can't read him, how do I know he's even telling the truth? What if he is just working for Moran?" John raves and he realizes that his breathing has picked up, all his anxieties about Clarke over the past month shining through.

_"John, calm down. It's okay."_

"It's not okay, we don't know anything about Clarke. Every experience I've had with people immune to my gift has ended badly for me, for us." John burst out and he begins to pull away from Sherlock, but the consulting detective still refuses to loosen his grip, forcing John to stay where he is.

Sherlock sends love, trust, safety and calm into the link and John relaxes a little bit.

_"I understand your apprehension but we've had this conversation. Clarke is nothing like Moran. He's not a viscous or bad person. I've observed the young man, remember?"_

John nods but doesn't say anything for a minute, letting Sherlock's reassurances try to calm him.

"What if you're wrong?" Its a quiet admission but John knows he has to ask it. What if?

_"I resent that question. I'm never wrong."_ Sherlock responds haughtily, and John thinks about that for a while. Sherlock is so confident and seems to genuinely think that Clarke isn't anything like Moriarty and John wonders if he can just take that at face value.

And sure he can. It wasn't too long ago that he had Sherlock relying on his trust. John can do the same, he can rely on Sherlock's far superior observations on this one manner. He closes his eyes and forces out a deep breath, letting the tension go. He can trust the detective, at least until he can get his own answers and figure out what Clarke's story really is.

As the tension leaves and Sherlock continues to send calming thoughts, John is eventually able to persuade his qualms about Clarke to the side and fall into a semi-restful sleep.

As he descends into unconsciousness, he pleads with himself not to have any bad dreams, even though he knows the actuality of that happening is minimal.

* * *

><p>John is slow-going as he makes his way into Scotland Yard. His muscles ache with fire, his legs the worse because of his frantic kicking to remain afloat from the night before. His head aches dully, like an afterthought, from the residual cold that John still feels, psychosomatically of course.<p>

He's dressed how one would expect to be dressed after a traumatic event involving hypothermia. He's wearing his warmest trousers and shirt with a fuzzy jumper over that. Even his socks are thicker, as if John is trying to keep the cold out.

Once the elevator dings and opens to the bustling floor of Homicide, Sherlock continues to keep pace with him, even though John can see and feel the detective twitchiness. A couple of feet from Lestrade's office his entire demeanor changes and there is a telling smirk that plays childishly over the younger man's face.

John, being familiar with those that he deems important, had recognized two minds filled with lust when he hit the floor and it had just taken Sherlock this long to catch up.

The consulting detective, without a glance towards John, puts one hand on the door knob and the other on the flat wood before pushing the door open with great force. The door opens with a thud, causing the two office occupants inside to jump, blush, and then back away from each other silently.

It's not until they recognize Sherlock that an almost identical scowl litters their faces.

"Brother, so nice to see you." Sherlock says smugly, high pitched and fake, as he saunters into the office.

Mycroft clears his throat viscously and sends the younger Holmes a glare, while trying to smooth his suit down, getting the creases out with a nervous movement.

It's not working.

John can't help but smirking slightly but mostly ignores the feelings that are being projected around the room. Lust, anger, a tad bit of embarrassment coming from Mycroft, mostly anger and longing from Lestrade and smugness from Sherlock.

John flounces into the room tiredly and plants himself on one of the chairs, waiting for the Holmes battle to start.

No such thing happens, instead, Mycroft clears his throat and follows John's movement.

"Hello, John." Mycroft, to the doctor's surprise, addresses him. "You look exceptionally well today."

He can feel Sherlock tense and knows that the politician is taking the piss to get back at Sherlock for his interruption.

He should be bothered by being used as a pawn, but he can't muster the energy.

Instead, he just huffs a self-depreciating laugh, before turning his head to look over at Mycroft and the man's disheveled appearance.

"Thanks Mycroft, you look wonderful too. Rumpled is a good look on you." Mycroft, not really looking at John, nor having thought the man would form a coherent response, turns his bitch glare onto the doctor which has John chuckling even more and slouching in his chair in amusement.

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something but John doesn't listen, he just closes his eyes tiredly for a minute. His night had not been as dreamless as he had hoped or wanted it to be. It wasn't until the second time that he woke up choking on non-existant water that he just gave up and spent the rest of the early morning on his blog with a pot of tea.

He knows that his face is drawn and his eyes have a spectacular purple underneath them, he can't seem to stop yawning.

John listens to the brothers bicker for a minute before Mycroft says in a huff of annoyance (John feels it too), "I will call upon you later, Gregory." And John looks over absentmindedly, in time for Mycroft to smirk slightly and pull the DI into a kiss, a rather filthy one in John's opinion. He can feel the disgust come over the link but John isn't all that bothered by it, too tired and exhausted to care really. He does swivel his head to meet Sherlock's eyes but the consulting detective is sulking in the corner. He must have lost whatever they had argued, deduced, observed over.

And the older Holmes is definitely proving he's won with a slightly aggressive and surprising display of vindication.

Finally, after a rather long time, they part. Greg looks dazed while Mycroft looks embarrassed and smug at the same time but both manage an (adorable) wave goodbye.

John can feel disdain coming over the bond along with a verbal scoff but before he can admonish him or even just move on to why they are here, Greg clears his throat.

John looks over in time to see the dazed, in love look, gone and replaced by one of irritation.

"Shut it," Greg starts, pointing a menacing finger at the detective, who has moved further into the office and sits in the chair to John's right. "I didn't get to see him last night because you," This time, Greg's finger moves to point at John, "you bloody idiot, decided to go for a swim." Lestrade finishes sternly and John's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

The doctor brings his hands up in surrender. "I wasn't going to say anything." He says diplomatically and he can feel Lestrade projecting his annoyance at the entire situation, although his more amused than mad. The DI narrows his eyes before nodding, reassured. Then he turns back to Sherlock again.

"And you, you can't act like an adult for once in your life. You know how Mycroft feels about being in the Yard and open about our relationship." Lestrade bitches and Sherlock's face remains blank, but John can feel a twitch of shame over the connection before its gone.

"Didn't seem like he had any qualms to me." John says and he doesn't know where it comes, he had just said he wasn't going to say anything. Sherlock is too busy laughing to be any help and Lestrade just whips his head back, throwing another glare at John.

"Sorry, sorry." John winces contritely, backpedaling immediately before nudging Sherlock to do the same.

"Sorry." It's halfhearted but John'll take it. He smiles sweetly up at Lestrade, his 'don't kill me, i'm just an innocent, tea drinking doctor' smile which Lestrade just sighs and decides to let it go.

"Fine. Children, bloody Children." Lestrade mumbles but sits down at his desk. After he shuffles a few papers around, he finally asks them for their statements.

They spend the next few minutes going over their statements, John's first. He keeps it short on purpose, they don't really need to know about how panicked he had felt and how close to death he thought it was. He keeps it short and to the point.

But when it came to Sherlock statement, the detective and the DI start to argue over all the little things they normally argue over. Whether or not Sherlock should be chasing after criminals by himself, going out there alone, etc etc.

They've had this argument so many times, Lestrade hoping that each time it will get drilled into the genius and Sherlock ignoring him because he doesn't listen to anyone. Except John of course.

John has heard it over and over, so he just lies back into his chair, every once and a while turning to stare listlessly out of the office window into the bullpen full of desks.

The two detectives drone on and on and John is about to break it up before he sees something catch his eye.

A familiar sergeant is shuffling around the desk, his hands full of folders that he would occasionally dropped lazily onto the desk he passes by.

He looks to be about as slow-going as John is and at least twice as miserable.

In that precise moment, John feels a pang of remorse and pity for the sergeant. Whether or not Clarke is good or bad, John knows what it feels like. He remembers feeling the pain, fear, dread when Sherlock had found out and then triple that when Mycroft found out. He didn't know if he'd be accepted or shunned, locked up or told to leave. For the short amount of time before John explained himself, he lived in a state of nauseating panic on what his future was going to be like.

He can imagine what Clarke's going through, explicitly.

Suddenly, John is standing and walking out of the office, sending an, _"I'll be back." _through the bond.

He notices absently that his head barely ached that time and he secretly hopes that means he getting used/better at it.

Regradless, he doesn't bother to wait for an answer or acknowledgement and walks out of the office without a second glance.

If he had turned around or hadn't been in a weird, focused trance as he is, he would have noticed Lestrade and Sherlock immediately ceasing their bickering/fighting to glance at each other and than at John's retreating back.

"Huh." Lestrade says eloquently and Sherlock nods in agreement.

"I didn't think he would do it today." Sherlock says, he is rather bitterly surprised at John's movements.

"Why not?" Lestrade asks, tearing his eyes away from where John had just walked up to Clarke, to which the boy did not seem pleased and even a little startled.

"He's...tired." Sherlock says and in a display of uncharacteristic nervousness, proceeds to bit his lip marginally.

"Nightmares again." Lestrade states knowingly.

"I..yes." Sherlock responds very quietly, he feels like he's betraying John by speaking of something so intimate, so personal.

"He talks about his nightmares, sometimes." Lestrade says non-chalantly after a few minutes of watching John and Sherlock's face snaps to the DI, a hint of jealousy raging through him with such a possessive undertone that Sherlock is surprised at himself and a little ashamed.

"Nothing big, just mentions them if he's tired." Lestrade placates unintentionally and Sherlock deflates.

"They are...not pleasant sometimes, some nights worse than others." Sherlock says, looking back out the window to where John is leading a dazed Clarke away from the populated area. He watches until they turn a corner and out of sight.

"He's a strong guy, he'll be fine." Lestrade says reassuringly, nodding his head in Sherlock's direction.

"I've never doubted his strength, Lestrade. Only his ability to share and confess what bothers him." Sherlock says before waving a hand dismissively. "Anyway, you know you owe me, we would still be hunting Johnson if I hadn't chased after him."

And just like that, Sherlock's expression goes from wistful and melancholy to serious and smug, causing Lestrade to change subjects with him. But that doesn't stop the DI from wanting to keep an extra eye on the consulting detective and his doctor from now on.

* * *

><p>John walks silently, twisting and turning gracefully around the desks until he places himself behind Clarke's disheveled appearance. The young sergeant, who's back had faced John, turns around quickly but doesn't act a bit surprised.<p>

"Bloody hell, I thought I felt you." Clarke starts in way of greeting, his eyes shifting nervously but slow with fatigue, "I thought I had a least another couple of days of avoiding you, preferably the rest of my life."

Despite his grumpy grousing, John can't help but laugh at the young man.

"You look terrible." John says and it's true. There are bruises below Clarke's eyes that are about as bad as John's and his pupils seem alight and alert in a way that only adrenaline and pure insomnia can do to a person.

"Yes. Well." He says non-committantly, but there is something that shifts in Clarke's face. Instead of a grumpy stance, his eyes have started to dart around as if searching for an escape and in that moment, John realizes two things.

1. He knows nothing about Clarke. Where's the man's from? How he's like this? Nothing.

2. How incredibly young the man is. He's only twenty-two. He's a boy in John's eyes and this amount of strength and resilience along with the gift is very trying. Of course, the man is looking for an escape, John would too if he was in the situation.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Clarke." John says quietly, shuffling a little bit closer to the man for fear of being overheard. Clarke's eyes whip back to the doctor with a definant stare.

"I don't know that, now do I?" Clarke says sharply, but John can sense (using his good ole' intuition) a small hint of..a lie? No, not lies, just half-truths.

In that moment John realizes something. Clarke is different than Moriarty, its plain as day, something's happened to the sergeant to make him cautious around John, and only around John. The man that he knows has a power that Clarke is not only familiar with but seems to know something about. And they've been dancing around each other because John is too quick to assume and Clarke's been hiding.

Because something has happened that has made the young man wary and reclusive and John showing up to remind Clarke of his past has made the sergeant fearful.

And by the way the sergeant's eyes are darting around with nervousness and agitation, it had to be something big.

John resists the urge to face-palm. He should have seen it, he's getting sloppy relying on his power to observe people. It's obvious and if John hadn't spent all of his time around Clarke visciously hating him, he would have seen that Clarke isn't out to get him or Sherlock.

He's just afraid. He's afraid and hiding and protecting himself from John. The telepath squints his eyes at the sergeant and realizes that Clarke isn't afraid of John because of what he can do, he's afraid because of what he is.

Now the question is, why? When has Clarke come across others? What did they do to him? Why is Clarke afraid of John?

He does the only thing he thinks will help.

"Read me." John says suddenly as an idea comes to him.

"What?" Clarke says and his eyes shift back towards John's face, backing up a little bit. His folders, that he had been distributing, are pushed against his chest, like some sort of shield.

"Read me." John says again with a more firm voice. "Do your magic. I'm not a threat." John tries to level a reassuring smile but Clarke's face is frozen with shock and the doctor doubts that anything is getting through.

"I don't know, sir." Clarke says hesitantly, his eyes moving again to shift around.

"Just do it, Micah." John snaps softly but impatiently and Clarke, startled by John's tone and the use of his first name, reluctantly obeys.

He doesn't close his eyes or move, in fact, nothing really changes. He just opens his mind, the way he always does in order to actively read someone. It feels weird at first, he's use to John's projected feelings and then, they are always muted because Clarke isn't channeling them.

Now, John's emotions are stronger, more stable. The doctor's mind is unique, with so many twisting and turning emotions that fade in and out of intensity. There seems to be so many emotions firing at once that Clarke hypothesizes that all of them can't just belong to John. He lets his gift float and he can start to sense Sherlock's distinctive emotional pattern swirling around in John's brain and Clarke's mouth opens of its own accord.

Their emotions float and twist around each other with giddy familiarity and Clarke is stunned. He's never read someone who's connected to someone else's mind before. The two of them, Sherlock and John, don't even know how strongly linked their emotions are and definitely are unaware of how deeply rooted their bond really is.

He continues swims around, letting the emotions float around him, the bad and the good, Sherlock and John. He gets a few curious vibes (Clarke recognizes Sherlock's pattern but it floats away before he can be sure) before he hits what John's wants him to see. There is a big blob of negatively, distrust, fear and panic that John is feeling at this moment and something in Clarke makes the sergeant whip his head around, surveying the area for the danger.

His head swivels and it takes an embarrassingly long moment for Clarke to finally figure out that the danger John perceives is _him._

His eyes dash to meet up with the doctor's and Clarke's brain feels like its fizzing with incredulity.

"You," Clarke gapes and stutters, "You're afraid of me?" Disbelief radiate off the sergeant and Clarke finds himself backing away from the doctor slightly. His head is fuzzy and he feels like he's in a shocked daze.

The entire time he's known John Watson, the entire time he's felt the doctor's projected feelings, he's never felt something like this. He's never felt the fear and the weariness and suspicion.

He can't wrap his head around it. Clarke isn't the one who John should be suspicious of, it should be the other way around.

During the course of Clarke's mini-life altering moment, John had started to notice a few curious glances and had taken Clarke by the elbow, leading the young man away from the crowd.

Clarke, lost in his own mind, and a little bit in John's emotions, lets himself be lead around the corner and into an empty supply closet. John looks up to see if there are cameras and sighs gratefully when blank ceiling tiles stare back at him.

"You are afraid of me." Clarke repeats, not even looking around at his new location, and laughs. It's a high-pitched, hysterical sound that has John looking at him with a brief flash of concern and Clarke can feel it through his gift.

"I'm sorry," Clarke says shaking his head, "I just...if you knew me that would be the last thing you would feel towards me." Clarke finishes, responding to John's emotions before the doctor can ask.

"I haven't have very much luck with those who have a gift like me." John whispers with slight tone of self-depreciation that Clarke can feel in the soldier's mind.

Clarke, shaking off the last bits of his trance-like state, shakes his head. This all seems so surreal.

"You, too?" Clarke asks and it's supposed to be a light joke to ease the tension, the building climax of their months of not-conversation.

"What?" John says suddenly, this time a little louder before he looks at the door of the closet, as if waiting for someone to come bursting through the door.

John's hand hasn't left Clarke's elbow and he can feel the doctor squeezing his grip with a firmer grasp.

Clarke looks down at the doctor's firm hold and then back into the man's blue eyes, giving him a confused look.

John's reaction is a mixture of confusion, panic, dread and relief all rolled into one.

"I've had problems with people in the past. It's why I'm so good at shielding." Clarke forces his answer, he can feel John's emotions starting to increase and he doesn't know what set him off.

"Clarke, what happened? In your past?" John asks, clenching his teeth as if he is asking to hear an unpleasant tale.

And really, John has know idea what he's asking about. However, Clarke, among the increasing panic, can sense the mistrust and suspicion start to fade as John realizes something, what exactly, Clarke doesn't know.

All Clarke can think is that he really doesn't want to tell his story. He doesn't explicitly trust John, not that he distrust John either, its sort of a middle ground thing. He just doesn't like sharing his story.

John gives Clarke's body a gentle shake and the sergeant forces his eyes to look at John. There is pleading and the need to for understanding coming from John's mind and Clarke decides something.

John isn't necessarily a threat, he hasn't hurt Clarke yet. Hell, he had been afraid of him, up until this point anyhow. There are things that John Watson isn't sharing right now, secrets, but Clarke has his secrets too and suddenly feels like he can maybe not be in this alone. Maybe, there are people like him that know what it's like.

Maybe, he can tell someone else about his past and he won't have to be burdened with the guilt or the bloodshed with such heaviness.

"How did it happen?" John ask softly, giving Clarke an in for the conversation. The sergeant feels one last surge of pleading coming from John before he pulls away, mentally and physically, and starts his story.

"When I was little I almost drowned," Clarke starts turning his body away. This story is hard enough to think about, let alone tell, he doesn't need to be looking at someone while he does it. "Well, I guess if we are getting technical, I did drown." He barks out a humorless laugh.

"My mom pulled me out, gave me CPR and I pulled through. I was never the same." Clarke continues, moving his body over to an overturned bucket and sitting upon it with a huffed gracefulness. "My Gram use to say that when I came back from the dead, something came with me. She was always believing in that afterlife stuff. She had some merit considering that she was an empath too." John gives a little gasp at this. The fact that there are others out there seem to baffle, scare and excite him all at the same time.

"Gram never told me how she got her gift, she just said that it had always been with her, ever since she was a wee girl." Clarke takes a deep breath before looking at John briefly and then getting lost back in his memories. "She taught me everything I know. Shielding, reading, all of it. Sweet, little old lady, wise beyond her years if you ask me."

Clarke's tone had gone from informational to sadden with grief in a gradual slope and John forces himself to ask, "What happened?" even though it makes him hate himself a little bit.

Clarke sighs miserably before leaning his body back against the bare wall of the closet, still avoiding John's gaze.

"My dad left when I was younger. It was just my little sister, Suzy, and me, with only my mom to raise us. She couldn't do it on her own, she worked two jobs but that wasn't enough to support us. So, we had to move out of London and go to Ireland where Gram lived." Clarke's eyes flash with nostalgia before darkening again. "Gram helped raise us and my mom would work and provide income. It wasn't the best option but it worked for everyone. I became really close to my grandmother. The day I died, I came home and she knew, she just knew." Clarke pauses for a sigh, before bringing his hands to his lap, wringing them together.

"She knew what and who I had become and she immediately sat me down. She told me of the wonders and the greatness but she also told me of the danger and how I couldn't let anyone know. She told me it was a gift, something to treasure and hold onto. She spent the next seven years teaching me how to shield, as well as influence and read others. She was a powerful empath, way more powerful than I am. In the end, I was only able to master reading and sensing emotions but my Gram, she could influence and unburden people. She was amazing." Clarke sighs and John notices the use of past tense and he suddenly is very wary of where this story is going.

But, John remains silent and Clarke moves on. "My mom started dating again when I was around ten, but none of them were serious. It wasn't until I was fifteen that she seem to snagged a decent bloke. Steve was really nice and decent and I read him, because that's what I did with all of my mom's boyfriends. She needed someone who would've cared for her and loved her because that's what she deserved." Clarke closes his eyes briefly at the onslaught of memories and emotions before gulping them down. John politely pretends not to notice as he wonders how many people Clarke has told this story to. "Anyway, Steve passed the test, he seemed to genuinely care about my mother and wasn't full of just lust or creepiness that some of her previous boyfriends had exhibited. So he didn't get an emotional kick in the behind and got to stay."

"Gram didn't really condone this behavior," Clarke continues, letting out a short bark of humor, "but I was young and stupid and I didn't know there was bad people out there after me, after us. He was just my mom's new boyfriend, someone who I had to protect my mom from if the time arose."

"For awhile, everything was fine. Steve was a muscular bloke and nice and caring and even sometimes hung out with me and Suzy. All of that changed one night, when Steve came over for our usual weekly dinner." With this statement, Clarke's face seems to cloud over and John shifts uncomfortably.

"As soon as he was in the door, I knew someone was off, different. This was before I had my shields up 24/7 and I could feel his negative torrent of projecting emotions clogging the house thickly. I liked Steve and how he treated my mom so I tried to make him happy. Gram had been training me on my influencing and unburdening and I was lousy at it but I hadn't ever practiced on Steve. This, coincidently, happened to be the first time I used any form of my gift on him and that's really when everything went to hell." Clarke's hands are wringing together with a frightening speed and John is frozen. He doesn't know if he should walk over to comfort or stand and listen in horror at the inevitable ending of this sad story.

Before he can make up his mind, Clarke takes a deep breath and continues. "I had never connected to his mind fully before. In previous times, I just hacked surface thoughts because I was young and I still respected my elders," Clarke pauses to huff a laugh. "But, as soon as I was enveloped in Steve's mind, I saw what I could only know as pure hatred. Pure evil and just badness underneath the surface, really black and bleak stuff. I remember my head whipping to meet his gaze and his eyes were staring right back at me with a wicked gleam. As soon as our gaze met, I knew that he knew who and what I was. His smile was all teeth and maliciousness." John can see Clarke's eyes glaze over as the traumatic memory replays in his head.

"I don't remember getting up, knocking the chair over, or even running to the kitchen. I just remember his eyes and his fast movements as he stalked after me. I remember using fast but calculated movements, every time I would back up, he would follow. I think I called for Gram with my empathy but its a bit fuzzy. Finally, I remember bustling into the kitchen and basically hiding behind my mom and Gram. They tried to ask me what happened but I couldn't respond. Steve entered and Gram had stiffened, she had finally sensed the hatred coming from Steve. In that moment, I remember wondering why Gram, the most powerful empath I know, didn't see this coming. Hadn't she read him?" Clarke shakes his head, obviously asking questions that he had been asking himself for years.

With a big sigh, Clarke continues and John wonders if its almost done. He never realized it would be something this horrible, something this traumatic that Clarke was running from.

"Anyway, next thing I know, Steve is looking between me and Gram with this predatory look, ya know? And I'm shocked still. I remember still being attached to his mind and sensing his greedy, happy and thrilled emotions that confused me but also informed me. My Gram then proceeded to try to talk him down, even though I knew she felt his thoughts, just as I did. She tried to influence his emotions but he was strong, later she told me that his mind was different. She said he was able to shield a certain way that allowed things to get projected out but nothing was able to come in."

At this, John stiffens without Clarke noticing. A man named _Steve _who could shield. John knows a man named Sebastian who is infamous for his shielding.

John tries to tell himself its just a coincidence and focuses on Clarke's story. "Eventually, Gram was able to slow him down and the next thing I knew he was gone. Dumped and kicked out by my mother."

"I remember how it had shaken me, I didn't go to school for two days because I was afraid, not just for me, but for Suzy, my mom, and Gram. Eventually, Gram convinced me that he wasn't going to come back and I went back to school. We lived a blessed week in peace and silence."

John straightens, something in Clarke's voice giving away that the story is reaching his climax.

"One day I came home late from school, some bullshit detention or something and I remember calling out. Nobody answered. I had come through the front door and I saw my sister first. There was blood, that's all I remember of my sister's body. Blood, blood on the wall, the stairs, the floor, the railings. Her body had been strewn across the bottom of the stairs while her back was covered in stabbings, repeating markings that were painted on with a bright and brutal red. I flung to her side, and I remember cradling her and then looking down at my uniform and getting irritated at the blood staining my white jumper. I remember chastising myself for worrying about something trivial while I held my sister's non-breathing body in my lap. She was barely ten."

John's face is frozen in horror. He notices the tears streaming silently down Clarke's face and suddenly doesn't want to hear the rest.

But, Clarke continues.

"I don't remember how long I sat there holding onto Suzy, it was some time until I noticed another streak of blood on the walls. I gently laid her down and followed the blood. I don't remember the walk down the hallway nor entering the kitchen. I just remember hitting the ground, falling to my knees. The bodies of Gram and my mother were so much worse to witness than that of my sister. This time the stark red was on the walls, the counters, the appliances, over the cupboards and the cabinets and even on the ceiling. It was everywhere and I remember getting dizzy from the smell of rust and iron. In the center, lay my mother and my grandmother, inches apart. My mom was turned on her side, looking at her mother with open eyes. Gram's head had been bashed in, repeatedly and brutally, while my mother's chest looked like target practice for knife throwers."

John has to resist the urge to cry, he can't even imagine what this boy, this man has been through. No wonder Clarke is afraid of John.

"Knowing what I know now, working at the Yard, I can't even fathom the rage and the amount of strength that Steve had to possess to do such a terrible crime." Clarke says, pausing briefly in his grief to stare coldly at the ground.

"I was frozen, I wanted to run to my Gram's side but I instead got violently ill. While I was hunched over, expunging my lunch, I heard it, a raspy breath and I remember looking up and seeing my mom's chest inflate slightly. I slipped and scrambled through the blood and was at her side in less than ten seconds. I yelled for her and I cried for her but she didn't respond. Her pain and her fear acted as temporary gags and I remember being grateful that Gram insisted upon wearing my shields all day every day. I can't imagine how terrible it would have been like with all the emotions in that room."

"She had just looked me in the eye, tears were streaming down my face and hers and she tried to lift a hand to my cheek but she was too weak and instead it flopped back to the ground. I remember turning to run to phone an ambulance but her throat made a terrible noise and it was then that I realized she had been moving her lips. I had to lean close to hear her say, _"Steve..works...for...power...out...to...get..you. ..Run."_ I remember the rage and the pure shock of hearing those words. My mother kept repeating those words the entire last thirty seconds of her life. I watched her die and then I called the police and ran."

Clarke is shaking and John has chills from the sergeant's mother's words and he makes a move to get closer but the sergeant flinches and huddles in on himself slightly, he's not really even registering John per se, just that there is a presence he is wary of.

"I ran far away from Ireland, got a new accent, learned a few tricks, including a new name and tricking my way into public school and there I met Melissa. Eventually, I told her about all my family dying and how I lived on the streets and her parents took me in and helped me through the rest of my secondary school days. They were estatic when I asked Melissa to marry me and even more proud when I joined the Met."

Clarke stills himself with a deep breath before wiping at his face. His grief dissipating and in turn his usual, if not slightly colder, mask is back on his face. It's an abrupt movement and John startles at the quickness of it.

"And now I have a family and a life and I'm not the same person I used to be. I protect myself by not being who I truly am." Clarke says, standing up and looking at John with fierce eyes. "That's it." And Clarke's voice is cold.

And John doesn't know what Clarke wants, does he want sympathy, empathy? Does he need reassurance? For once, John Watson doesn't know how to comfort and the thought scares him.

Clarke doesn't wait for John to make up his mind, he just brushes past the doctor and opens the door before walking out.

"Clarke, wait!" John, getting his breath, mind, and shock under control, turns to follow.

He gets out of the room and is met with an empty hallway. He doesn't know why, but he has to find the sergeant. A part of him needs to so he can, oh he doesn't know, explain himself maybe? Clarke revealed something intimately personal and John doesn't know how to take it or what to do with it.

He jogs down the hallway, intending to go into the bullpen of desk but instead, hits what seems to be a brick wall.

Except, brick walls don't have limbs that grip and constrict around doctors' biceps. The telepath struggles for a second but it's useless, the brick wall has shoved and pulled John away from the direction of Clarke. (If that's really even his name?)

_"-ohn. John. John. John." _Sherlock is calling over the bond with worry, panic and concern and John forces his eyes to look at the pseudo-brick wall. Sherlock's lean body is flatten against him protectively and John sags with..relief? Remorse?

"_John what's wrong? What's happened?" _The detective is so worried and John resists the urge to throw up. His emotions are debuting in a non-stop roller coaster of emotions in the last fourteen hours.

"It's Clarke," John starts and he can hear his voice breaking and he wonders about what a mess he must look like. "He isn't out to get us, but I think someone from his past is."


	13. Chapter 13: John's Rooftop

Whoa. Angst, like for real, ahead.

Sherlock might be a little OOC but hey, its fiction.

I don't even know, guys.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>Somehow, Sherlock gets John home. Shuffling the man through the Yard, into a cab and then into the doors of Baker Street. Sherlock would have been worried, or as close to worried as he is capable of being, if he hadn't been getting snippits of John's emotions bleeding through the connection.<p>

So far, John's been an intense state of thought and shock.

And Sherlock has already deduces why.

Clarke.

John, himself, doesn't remember how he got home. One minute he had been talking to Clarke, hearing of his horrible past and letting his imagination run wild. The next thing he knows is the comfortable cushions of _his_ chair in 221B Baker Street. Three cups of tea, varying in temperature, sit on the small table to his right and John stares at them with confusion for a moment, wondering just how long he's been in a daze.

He glances at the windows, the curtains pulled back and the lowering sun shinning through. It's late afternoon, about an hour before sunset. He's been unaware for the better part of the day and he has nothing to show for it.

Except the horrifying images his imagination can cook up of Clarke's murdered family.

Clarke. Christ.

The man, the boy that John's been so fearful of, lost his family and basically his gift in one night. One bloody and terrifying night. He had only been fifteen for Christ sakes.

Why is this effecting him so much? He's heard and even seen death, he went to Afghanistan. This is a tragedy, yes, but by far not the worst story he's heard.

_"John." _

He needs to get himself, his mind under control. This isn't any different. Take this shock and internalize it, make it make him stronger.

_"John."_

But, he can clearly picture the boy in his mind. A fifteen year old, lanky and small stares at him with hollowed eyes, blood dripping from his hands and his face is smeared with blood, tears, and snot.

_"John." _

The doctor shakes his head forcefully, he can't afford to get caught up in Clarke's tragedy, not with such encompassing compassion. He has to stay clinical, detached or he's going to get too involved. His own memories of war and desert will blend and then there'll be a huge PTSD mess of emotions and that won't help anyone.

"_John."_

Clarke's story makes John realize things, so many things that he's pushed aside or never even thought about. His life isn't that bad, his gift is something he should treasure. Clarke lost his gift the night he lost his family and John can't even fathom what that's like. His mind, his telepathy is something that's always just been there, something that he can't even imagine existing without. He would just feel naked, stripped bare of everything that makes him who he is.

_"John."_

God. It's a treasure, he's knows that, yes, but its also more. His gift has so much to do with protection. Protect himself from those who could potentially hurt him, but more so, finding a protection balance so that he doesn't become a danger to society. He's been to casual with his gift. He's been just accepting his power and has let it twist itself into his life, throwing caution to the wind it seems.

_"John."_

John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face as he turns his head towards the shuffling form on the couch. Some part of him had just registered Sherlock's callings. He eyes the detective, tiredly wondering if he should offer a reassuring smile. John sighs again and feels (rather dramatically), with recent events, that he may never smile again. Sherlock's face looks over at John with blankness but the doctor can feel the intense worry and helplessness across the bond.

He wants to be reassuring, he wants to send safety, love and calm but he just can't muster up the strength or the memories to go along with the emotions.

_"John."_

"I'm fine." John whispers distractedly, and its barely audible but he knows that Sherlock heard him. The feelings of worry and concern, however, do not dissipate and John turns his head away from the direction of the consulting detective.

He needs to get up and deal with whatever is going on in his brain. He needs to find a quiet place and just think, where cups of tea and worrying detectives won't distract him. He needs to mediate and dig deep, find out why and how he's drifted.

Because that's what it feels like, it took Clarke's story for John to realize that he isn't the same man that he was all those years ago, he is not the same man that made the rules in the first place.

Where did he fade away from his high moral standing?

_"John." _

He pushes himself to his feet abruptly, hearing his body creak because of his statue-like state that he had been imitating for most of the day. He shuffles over to Sherlock, the detective's face remaining blank but his eyes stormy with emotions. The lean man worries and he doesn't know how to make John feel better.

Honestly, the fact that Sherlock's worried in the first place sends a warm, fuzzy feeling through John, totally inappropriate of the situation presently but there nonetheless.

"I'm fine." He whispers again pushing Sherlock's curls away from his forehead and cupping the man's cheeks. He gazes into the younger man's eyes for a minute before bending down and brushing his lips against the man's skin. He reiterates his words with love, trust, safety, calm, adoration and gratitude through the warm, tactile connection to reassure his partner.

Sherlock's eyes have closed during the onslaught of the bond and he gives a sigh of relief, his exceptional obseratoinal skills deducing that John needs time to himself. Trust and love drip from the link, showing John that he understands and will still be here when John is done.

John rests there for a second, reveling in the emotions coming from Sherlock before he straightens up with a sigh. With the pseudo-acknowledgement/understanding coming from Sherlock, John walks to their bedroom to fetch his iPod. The dingy, but practical one that Harry had given him when he had return from Afghanistan. Another one of Clara's things that she didn't need or hadn't wanted.

He hardly uses it anymore. It had been a godsend when he still at white noise but not it's more or less useless. Except for situations like this, when John just needs to block everything out except for his thoughts and the Bach Cello Suites that calm him.

He fiddles with the scrolling feature while putting his earphones in and climbs the stairs to his old bedroom/Sherlock's laboratory. Since the beginning of his occupancy at Baker Street, there has always been a fire escape just outside the bedroom window, that has access to the roof. He opens the door and heads straight for the window, not even stopping to pause over Sherlock's experiments (even the questionable looking one with mold coming out and down the side of a old coffee mug). He slips out of the window with familiar and practiced maneuvers. London air hits him with a slight wave of the wind and he clambers up the ladder.

He used to spend a lot of time up here, secretly of course at first. Sometimes his nightmares were too much and Baker Street had been too stifling. Other times, he would just need to escape from all that is Sherlock and the man's ability to attract explosions like he was dynamite himself. Most often, he would blink and find himself up here, watching the London skyline dart in and out of smog while smells and breezes would float and wash over him.

This is the first time, however, that's he's been up here since his return.

Looking around, nothing's changed. The roof has always been bare, slabs of concrete on the ground surrounding by a low bricked ledge. The newest addition to the rooftop is a scattering of equipment that seem to have been forgotten up here.

John looks around and breathes deep before making his way to the structure that is erected in the middle of the roof, encasing and protecting the A/C and heating units. He rests his back along it before sliding down carefully, his back making scraping noises against the scratchy bricks. He gets to the ground, letting his knees bend a little bit with his feet flat on the ground. His knees aren't necessarily tight against his body but they are positioned in a way that makes John feel more protected.

John looks around and remembers why he used to come up here so often. London is beautiful. The best part of the roof is easily the low ledge. The first time Sherlock had shown him the roof, he had been wary of it. The dwarfed bricked edged had offered no protection of falling off and John had been worried that Sherlock would become too distracted and plummet to his death. Eventually though, after the nightmares became to much, he came to appreciate the red and brown bricks that make up the low ledge because of the sheer amount of visibility. No matter where he sits on the roof, he is able to see over it and all the way to the horizon.

And when one is experiencing the disorienting aftereffects of nightmares that feature deserts and stifling heat, the London skyline and gentle breezes are the most welcome reprieve.

John lets his head swivel around lazily, see the buildings that he's familiar with and the hues of the sun that is preparing to sleep. Royal purple and a stark crimson streak the atmosphere as the sun descends. The colors are bouncing off of the smog and causing the sky to light up in a breathtaking view that distracts John from his problems and inner questions.

He's not distracted for very long. The lonely man on the roof sighs as his mind brings him back to why he fled up here in the first place.

John didn't use to have to question his gift. He use to be able to take it with a grain of salt. The doctor used to be able to just be, to just exist.

Now he second-guesses everything he does, everything he learns. John's constantly wondering whether or not the next new thing his brain learns will be final straw that ends up tearing humanity apart.

Well, that may be taking it rather dramatically, but the sentiment still stands. If his gift is a normal evolution for humankind, there would be way more people walking around with it.

That could be the case, he supposes. Clarke exists and Moriarty had existed being clear examples of others out there.

Clarke and Moriarty. John huffs.

One good person with a gift and one bad person with a power.

Clarke, the poster boy for innocence and fear. He's so afraid of his gift and what dangers it can (has) bring, his family and in turn himself, that he shuts that part of himself away and essentially taking a totally selfless(ish) route.

But Moriarty, that man is/was the complete opposite. John still doesn't even know what the criminal mastermind had been capable of, except the encompassing smell of blood of course. He just knows, based on the man's associates and his crimes that the Irishman was pure evil. And to this day, John doesn't regret putting him down one bit, (even if he's got Moran after him now).

Clarke's the good and Moriarty's the evil, suppose that means that John's somewhere in the middle. Not completely good but then definitely not evil either. He's killed people, with and without his gift. He's preserved because he's been able to use his gift for his own protection and in some cases, Sherlock's as well.

What does that make him? A neutral party?

That isn't right either, if he is truly neutral he wouldn't care either way. And John definitely cares. He has his rules for a reason, despite his lax view of them lately, and his high moral code.

John sighs in exasperation and for a second, a stupid, selfish second he damns Clarke and the man's traumatic past. He damns the man that makes John feel this way, makes him second-guess himself.

Clarke's given his power up because it is safer that way, for those he loves and for him. The young sergeant knows what it feels like to experience loss, experience devastating pain because of his gift. To Clarke, it's as if he signed his own family's death certificates.

What if that becomes a problem for John? What if John loses someone? Mrs. Hudson? Harry? God, Sherlock? What if Moran's threat of suffering doesn't mean physically hurting John? What if that means going after the people he cares about? What if he goes after Lestrade? Mycroft? (John resists the laugh) or Clarke?

(For a second he wonders why he's worried about Clarke. The man, that up until today he had been wary and even fearful of, why would John be worried about him? Isn't that the clincher? John's not afraid of Clarke anymore because the sergeant isn't a threat and therefore someone that John is starting to care about. Then there is the fact that there is another person out there like him, someone who knows what its like and that right there, to John, is worthy of protection and worry.)

Anyone of those people coming to harm would be detrimental to John's severely fragile psyche. He doesn't know how he would be able to live, survive if Moran choses to take his revenge and his aggression out on someone he cares about.

He doesn't know how to fix this, how does he deal with this? Someone coming after him and threatening his life? This is much different than Moriarty. The mastermind had just been a someone in the shadows, someone who didn't actively chase him. Moran is blinding by rage and revenge and John can only lay in wait.

He snorts bitterly when he realizes that Clarke's in the same boat, except that Clarke had to shut his power and his past away.

John's life is way to far gone to do that. He can't just pack everything away, he won't do that to Sherlock.

So what does he do?

How does he fight against something that he can't predict against?

And for a second, he doesn't know if he's thinking about Moran or his own gift.

He's always been able to rely on his rules. They had been made to keep him in line and provide safety, for himself and society, but now he's just seems to treat them as guidelines. A list of things that he _sometimes _listens too.

He needs to re-evaluate. He needs to think about where he's gone wrong, what point has he decided that he's some sort of telepathic vigilante that doesn't have to abide by rules.

He lets his head head hang, lulling against his chest and closes his eyes. His shoulders rise and fall as he breaths his emotions away to the smoothing tempo of cello in his ears. He thinks about his rules.

Rule #1: If it is possible to save a life while still keeping a secret, that life is John's personal responsibility.

John sighs, he can't remember the last life that he's saved that hasn't been his own or Sherlock's. Yet, the rule is one of the few that still applies and is relative, not to mention beneficial, really.

Rule #2: Always have a pair of headphones ready.

John laugh at this, a soft huffing noise that echoes across the rooftop, bouncing off the concrete and bricks. Ever since Sherlock and there ever-expanding bond there's been no need for headphones. Even when he was 'dead', the white noise had been something that constantly buzzed in the back of his brain. It barely even hurt like he he's used to, more of an annoying nuisance. He would be across the world and he could still hear Sherlock but the white noise would fade in and out the closer to England he was. He remembers spending a day and a half in Paris and in that time, the white noise had almost completely faded. Thus, its barely an issue anymore and that truth makes John scared.

The lack of white noise, the strength of their bond. What does it mean? He's known Sherlock for how many years now? And he still doesn't know how or why the detective is special?

Rule #3: Never pry into someone's mind unless it concerns Rule #1 or self-preservation.

John wants to laugh again, he wants to laugh long and hard at this because of how many times has he broken this, his own rule.

He doesn't or more like he can't. His lips remain closed and quiet. This is what he's talking about. How many times has he casually read someone? Lestrade? Mycroft? Hell, Sherlock? Sure, they don't mind, especially Sherlock, but that's beside the point. Sure, sometimes these people project and it seems the more familiar John is with their mind and senses the more projections he hears but what does that mean? How can he stop it? Should he stop it?

Of course he should, John was young and naive when he made these rules but that doesn't make him any less right. Around him, what is the one thing people have?

Their privacy. If John can't control himself enough to give them their privacy then what's truly theirs anymore?

John's head hangs with defeat, what kind of monster is he?

Rule #4: Avoid all acts of intimate touching of skin, unless for Diagnosis or unless in association with Rule #1.

John realizes with a start that's it been a long time since he's even thought about these rules, obviously just as long since he'd followed them so religiously. No touching. That isn't even plausible anymore. John must have been a sad little man before he met Sherlock.

His head is full of bitterness and resentment at the moment but he continues to the next rule.

Rule #5: Take Precautions. Wear gloves and an abundance of clothing (jumpers) when out in public and around people.

Yet another rule that can almost be thrown out the window. Sherlock's helped condition him to touch, and in truth, this is the only part of his evolution, his leanings that he's truly grateful for. He remembers the blackouts and the nosebleeds. He remembers having to wear ridiculous amount of layers even when temperatures were high.

Now, he doesn't have to worry about the random or accidental touches, everyone who he comes into contact with, he's condition himself for and doesn't feel the pain of broken connections anymore.

Well, except for Moran. That man seems to be one big contradiction, almost like Sherlock, to everything John knows and learns.

All thanks to Sherlock and John wonders how much he owes the detective in regards to the advancement of his gift.

However, he's still stuck. He can't decide if his growing power is a good or bad thing.

Rule #6: The gift is meant to be a secret, people do not need to think him mad.

John can't help but think about how fucking depressing these rules are and how many he's broken.

How many people know now? How many people has he been forced to share with? Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft, (and probably Anthea then too), Moran and maybe his lackeys, and now Clarke. What happened to keeping it a secret? How many more people are going to know about John in the years to come? (That is if he survives whatever Moran brings) How many more people are going to liable for pain because of him?

Rule #7: Wear two pairs of Latex gloves when working with patients. Better safe than sorry.

John sighs in relief, finally a rule that still applies. John still wears two pairs of gloves when working with his patients, much to the bewilderment of his boss, Stan. But, the man thinks he's a spy anyway so...

He can't believe how genuinely relieved he is to have a rule that he still follows, even though its mostly a rule for his protection.

Rule #8: Avoiding crowded areas is appreciated.

John remembers when he couldn't go out in public. He remembers when he would confine himself to the night shifts and the sketchy alleyways. All of this was before Sherlock of course, before the man taught him control and condition. Before he met the man that would singlehandedly wipe out his white noise problem.

What doesn't he owe to Sherlock?

What does that really mean?

Rule #9: Know the limits of the gift, over exertion could result in nosebleeds, hospitals, migraines, or worse.

John's laugh is harsh and humorless as it reverberates throughout the rooftop. Limits his arse. How many times has he passed out, gotten nosebleeds, migraines in the past month? He's pushing, always pushing. Maybe he shouldn't, maybe he should just let his gift be. Maybe, the nosebleeds and the blackouts are his mind saying that he should leave well enough alone.

When was the last time he actually listened?

Rule #10: Sherlock must never find out.

He already knows this one doesn't apply anymore and passes over it without another thought.

Rule #11: Creating comas are purely for self-preservation, not harm.

This is a rule John finds himself obeying and agreeing with, so far he's never maliciously put someone under, unless they were a direct threat. He doesn't see himself breaking this rule. And if he does, there are other, more severe things to worry about.

Rule#12: Pushing negative emotions upon someone is strictly prohibited.

The amount of times he used this on Mycroft alone is unconscionable. He is horrible to the politician, even though in the back of his mind there is a voice saying that the man deserves it regardless. To influence people with that much pain and suffering goes against every moral code that John has and maybe even human nature himself.

So those are what makes him who he is? Yet, he's deviated from them so many times.

Why? How? What's the point of it all?

Is it some higher power giving him something special?

If that's the case, why him? Why Clarke? Christ, why Moriarty?

John puts his hands to his head, trying to stop it from spinning. He hasn't had this much of a gift-related crisis since the months following it's surfacing, the months he had spent thinking he was crazy.

John spends the next some minutes picking apart his rules, throwing some aggressively away, never to be used again because they aren't legitimate anymore. Others rules he tweaks and re-words. He really doesn't know why he's bothering, he's just going to break them in the long run.

He sighs tiredly. His body is sore, worn, and exhausted from the last twenty four hours. The almost hypothermia, the nightmares, Clarke's story, and his own shock from hearing the events of Clarke's past have sent a tired disturbance through the doctor.

"What's the point?" John tilting his head towards the sky, asking himself, the sky, the world his quiet question.

What is even the point? Of having this gift? Of being abnormal, different?

What's the point of any of it? What's the point of the tragedy that seems to follows those who have the gift?

_"You help people." _John flinches at the quiet thought.

He's not necessarily surprised at the genius's presence. He figured it wouldn't take long for Sherlock to ninja-crawl up the fire escape.

He just glances in the man's direction briefly. Sherlock's sitting on the low ledge, just beside the red ladder, looking almost bored but John can feel the steady thread of worry, anxiety, and concern over the link.

John wonders how long Sherlock had been sitting there, he didn't even hear the ladder rattle, which he knows it's prone to do. He wonders if his own feelings had been bleeding through the bond and caused Sherlock increased worry.

He's being pretty dramatic and melancholy, he'd be worried too.

He's really got to learn to shield.

He shakes his head before turning away from the genius, looking back at the little sliver of the almost sunken sun that is peaking out. He's been up here for a long time already. He can feel a chill blowing and twirling around the rooftop.

"You're wrong." John states defeatedly, not looking for an argument merely stating a fact. That can't be the purpose of his gift, to help people. So far, out of the three people he knows that have one (including himself) he's the only one that's helped anyone beside himself.

(The coma patients from his early days and even more importantly, Sherlock)

_"I'm never wrong." _Sherlock's thought drips resentment and bitterness and John has to laugh at the confident affronted tone that comes over the connection.

So far, Sherlock hasn't moved. His body is still hunched over, sitting on the ledge with ease, his long legs stretched out in front him.

John envies him slightly. The man doesn't seem to have a care in the world, but John immediately shakes that thought away. Its untrue, and John knows it. He knows Sherlock cares, he knows he worries about things like cases, experiments and John himself.

Still, the bastard makes it look so fucking easy.

"What's the point of this gift? These rules? Its not to help people." John blurts out desperately, lost, after a few silent minutes. Sherlock's smart, maybe he can think of a different reason.

He can hear the detective give a sigh before the shuffling of feet are heard. He senses Sherlock moving towards him and then there is a body sliding down the brick next to him. John absently pulls out his earphones and wraps them around his iPod before setting the thing down between his legs.

Sherlock settles, his body turned slightly towards John as his long legs crossed like a pretzel. John can feel Sherlock's warmth on his left side and leans into the comfort as he closes his eyes.

For a second, he thanks whatever and whomever for his life. Yes, maybe he is confused about his gift and his position in the world but he would never doubt his love or his gratitude for having Sherlock in his life.

John is pulled from his mushy, angtsy thoughts by a hand on his chin, pulling gently to get John to turn his head.

"John," Sherlock says and John opens his eyes, startled to hear the deep baritone echo throughout the roof. His gaze meets the smooth gray eyes of Sherlock and he just sort of melts into them.

"You came up with your rules." Sherlock says quietly but firmly. When Sherlock doesn't follow up on his statement, John looks at him quizzically, wondering where the man is going with this.

The detective stares at him and then sighs exasperatedly and John can tell the man is resisted the urge to call the doctor an idiot.

"You only disappoint yourself when you break them." Sherlock says in an obvious tone and John's eyes widen.

Oh. Well, that makes sense.

He did come up with them but how could he not?

He doesn't dare dwell on the thought of his creation of the rules, he can't.

And still, it doesn't answer his original question. What is the point?

"Your first rule is saving someone else's life if it is within reason." Sherlock adds and John feels like he's gaping like a fish.

_"I'm right. Always." _And the detective is, John's high moral standing has been in charge of his gift since day one, and in a way, he made his own purpose.

It's a completely different perspective. There was no 'higher power' who made the three of them and John had to survive with no other person telling him that this is how he must behave.

It's all him.

What does that even say about him?

"When you break the rules," Sherlock continues snidely, ignoring or unaware of John's internal monologue. It's as if the young man is struggling with John's reaction to today's events, life events. "You aren't doing anything wrong." Sherlock finishes and looks into John's eyes with unyielding command, willing the blonde to understand.

And he does, sort of. He's just trying to convince himself that whenever he breaks a rule its a bad thing.

He realizes with sudden surprise that he could be much worse. He could have no rules/guidelines and do whatever he wants. He could casually read anybody and everybody without hesitation. He could invade in people's private thoughts without any qualms. Or worse.

In a way, it's extremely lucky that his moral code is so solid and impenetrable.

(Who the lucky one in the situation, him or society, is anyones guess)

"Whatever happened in Clarke's past." Sherlock starts and John wants to turn his head away, to not look at Sherlock but the man's grip tightens slightly. "It has nothing to do with you." He adds firmly. "It was a variable that happened out of a hundred other outcomes." Sherlock says strongly and John is about to question how Sherlock knows, but then...

Consulting Detective.

Right.

"He lost his entire family." John says quietly, the grief from his imagination and Clarke himself threatening to pour out of John. The doctor tries to shut it down, clamp the pain, fear, grief and sadness down so that it doesn't show on his face or in the link. He doesn't need to burden Sherlock with it, or really anyone else.

"So? You aren't going to lose me." Sherlock says gently, loosening his grip on John's face but still holding, and the doctor would have scoffed at Sherlock's ego if he hadn't been right, completely hitting the nail on the head.

"You can't be 100% sure, Sherlock." John says dejectedly and now it's Sherlock's turn to sigh. A small huff of breath that washes over John's cheek because of how close they are.

_"John." _The thought is accompanied by worry, safety, concern, trust, love, exasperation, and even a bit of frustration.

The detective narrows his eyes, echoing the emotions that are coming across the link but John and doesn't say anything.

"I am. I intend to live a very long life." Sherlock says confidently and damn him, because the way he says it, so certainly and in the same tone he deduces in, (all of them correct in outcome) it makes John believe him without doubts.

_"Well, criminal notwithstanding." _Sherlock thinks and John is forced to laugh despite himself, pulling out of Sherlock's grip and shaking his head in amusement.

"I'm sure you have a contingency plan for those situations." John says chuckling still as he leans into Sherlock's turned body and the detective nods enthusiastically.

_"Of course. You." _

John turns his head back to look at Sherlock and his face is so open, without a hint of cheesiness and John realizes that Sherlock means it wholeheartedly.

And that face right there, full of honesty, love, and trust, almost makes tears fall, the ones that have been threatening to escape out of frustration and pure sorrow ever since he had gotten to the roof.

John just looks at Sherlock, the lean figure has scooted further, his right shoulder hidden slightly behind John's hunched left shoulder and the detective leans on his right hand for balance. John quickly glances up and down Sherlock's relaxed and even shielding body. The man's shirt rustles slightly as a breeze sweeps across the roof. John sighs as he brings his right hand to cup Sherlock's exposed cheek and neck.

He looks into the man's eyes with a soft expression. John's always described Sherlock's eyes at gray, liquid smoke or stormy but now, the detective's irises are darker, a little like ash, and his pupils are growing bigger.

His thumb is absentmindedly stroking Sherlock's (perfectly) high cheekbones as he tries to convey his own love and gratitude non-verbally.

Then, he realizes that he doesn't have to rely on the non-verbal. He can feel the warmth of the connection sizzling in their silence and sends all of his thanks, love and trust into the connection.

Sherlock smiles, a little quirk at the corner of his lips and his eyes shoot downward briefly, a very adorable shy gesture that has John smiling softly.

In that moment, he's hit with a wave of slight but temporary panic. What if something does happen to Sherlock? John can't imagine his life without the lean man. His observations, deductions, brattiness, eccentricity, god, his everything.

"I love you." John says quietly but with conviction because Sherlock needs to hear it and know.

"I know." He whispers like it's a secret, their secret as he nods.

_"I love you too." _The detective thinks and John smiles wider.

_"Cheater." _The doctor sends with amusement, ignoring the brief twinge, and lets his gaze lower briefly to Sherlock's lips before he strokes his thumb against it.

Then they are kissing. John's right hand splayed across the left side of Sherlock's face, pulling the man gently towards him. The telepath pushes their lips together, pecking chastely at first to tease the detective who quirks a frustrated smile in return. Then, there's a hand sliding up his arm and griping the back of his neck and Sherlock pulls John closer and immobilizing him. John moans a chuckle into Sherlock's mouth at the detective assertiveness.

They kiss for so many minutes that it seems like hours and after some time Sherlock gets impatient at their angle and tugs at John until the doctor is forced to shuffle forward. Sherlock keeps tugging and John eventually has to pull away. Their lips disengaging with a wet noise and he straddles Sherlock's, now extended, legs. At first, Sherlock had a pout on his face but now the man has a devilish glint as he bends his long lets slightly to give John some support.

He just smiles down at his detective and bends to kiss him again.

Once John is settled right, sitting on Sherlock's lap and giving him a slight height advantage, all the while kissing him, Sherlock starts to move. His left hand slides horizontally across John's ribs before settling on the doctor's back, while the other creeps up and rests at the nape of John's neck. Its seems as Sherlock is learning from John's previous teasing and grips firmly to prevent the doctor from going anywhere.

John tilts his head and deepens the kiss while his hand cups Sherlock's neck gently, and his other twists itself into Sherlock's shirt.

They snog for a while, the doctor lets himself get lost in the emotions and the feelings and the fireworks. He lets it wash over him and pushes away his earlier sadness and angst for a while.

But eventually, after he's had to come up for air a couple times and before things can get really heated John (forces) himself to pull away.

He sighs happily, resting his forehead against Sherlock's and lets the connection buzz with euphoria and pleasantness.

However, as pleasurable as the snog was, it doesn't help with John's current predicament.

"You set your own rules John," Sherlock starts, obviously knowing why John has stopped, "Because you didn't want to lose yourself in your gift." Sherlock is clenching and unclenching his hands at John's sides. "Even you, my John," Sherlock pauses here to press a chaste kiss to John before continuing, "cannot be expected to follow them as strictly as you do or think you should."

And when did Sherlock get so could as being reassuring? Honestly.

John, seeing the determination coming off of Sherlock and the link, concedes the point. He nods with a hint of miserableness.

Sherlock swoops in for another kiss and John returns it.

None of this means that he's all better, in fact, he knows that he's going to be re-evaluating his rules and even maybe perfect his shielding.

He needs to work on a lot of things.

Moran is coming, after all and he just can't sit idly, waiting for the man to strike.


	14. Chapter 14: Ugh, Mycroft

I totally admit this is a filler chapter, I've been swamped. Sorry guys.

Probably a lot of mistakes but I didn't do my third proofread so I could get it out to you guys.

Peace&Love

Sophie

* * *

><p>A few days later, after Sherlock had shuffled John down from the cold rooftop with promises of tea and more kisses, John is walking home from work. He exits the bowels of the Tube station closest to Baker Street while his mind wanders.<p>

The 'rooftop think', as John likes to call it, hasn't really changed the doctor that much. John still finds himself wandering, sometimes distractedly while riding the Tube, grocery shopping, even at work, through his life choices and actions. Throughout it all, there are one question that keep battling for dominance, getting John's attention and making his head hurt from stress and anxiety.

Does he crack down on his gift or just throw caution to the wind?

Does he learn how to perfect his shielding? To the extent of what Clarke has done? Or does he just take it as it comes? Does he let everyone be and whoever projects is fair game?

Okay, there is _more_ than just one question.

He knows they are the same type of questions he asked himself on the roof and has been trying to find an answer ever since.

He can obviously see the pros and cons of all the decisions but what about the reality of them.

Sherlock had been right when he said that John made the rules, there was no other influence, and when they get broken, John only disappoints himself.

But, is that an excuse to disregard them completely?

No. John sighs and shakes his head faintly as he continues to walk. Definitely not.

He's just got to find a balance, a neutral position where he doesn't have to worry about his safety, or even society's safety and he can just exist without worrying constantly.

The perfect Utopia.

Achievable only when there is a cold day in Hell, the doctor thinks as he walks briskly and unlocks the door to Baker Street.

He hangs up his coat in the foyer mechanically and shuffles up the stairs.

John ascends the first fifteen steps of the stairs without a second thought. As he reaches the remaining two steps he stops and realizes that the sitting room is unusually full.

Or rather, it seems full when you count the giant egos of the Holmes brothers occupying it.

The door is open and John can hear their snippy tones and bitter remarks.

He debates turning around, just going back down the stairs out to the pub.

John would do anything to not deal with Mycroft today, of all days.

He shuffles, as quietly as possible, and starts to turn around, thinking that a pint, Greg and football will be ten times better company right now. He's about to take his first step down when the familiar tone of Sherlock invades the ever present connection.

_"Don't just stand out there, John. Get him to leave." _

Damn.

The detective's tone is petulant and irritated, a sign that Mycroft's been here for a while, and John sighs. If the genius has heard him, then there is no doubt that Mycroft is aware of the doctor's presence.

John, still turned around lets his head fall for a brief second, damning the Holmes family and their ridiculously keen observational skills.

"Good afternoon, John." Mycroft calls loudly, and that damn politician sounds so smug and even cheery and it makes the doctor wants to just shake his fist at the man.

He knew it, he shouldn't have come home, he should have just gone right to the pub and met Greg there, like he had planned.

Sod the vomit hat a patient had expelled onto his shoes, he would have worn the upchuck like a freakin' trophy if it meant that he didn't have to deal with the most dysfunctional family in London, or hell, all of Britain.

Regardless, John figures he's spent enough time lurking in the stairwell and it just seems silly to stay there out of spite considering that both men know he's there. He clomps up the stairs and enters the room defeatedly.

_"He won't leave." _Sherlock thinks but doesn't shift his body and John has to stifle his laugh at the juxtaposition of the detective's stiff posture and his five-year-old tone.

"Afternoon, Mycroft." John responds politely, because he's British. However, he doesn't let that fact stop him from mumbling a sarcastic, "Lovely to see you" under his breath as he passes the two of them and heads to his beloved kettle.

There is no way that he's _not_ going to have tea if he's to be forced into a conversation with Mycroft.

The politician just smiles at John's retreating back before turning to Sherlock again. The detective is sitting upright, his legs crossed over one knee and his face in a bland expression that John knows is a scowl.

Mycroft seems perfectly content to sit in John's chair and the doctor has long since stopped being tetchy about it, well, for the most part anyway.

John puts the kettle on and goes about his routine for making his afternoon tea, ignoring the two brothers.

God, what a day. The non-stop rush of patients that barely gave John a breath between them. Not to mention his last one of the day, the poor kid. It really wasn't even his fault, he just had a nasty case of the flu and he didn't make it to the bin in time. When Greg had texted him at lunch time asking for a pint (murderers permitting, always murder permitting), John had readily accepted. He needed someone normal to talk to and destress without having someone make him sniff new things every five minutes. (Sherlock's newest experiment. Don't ask. No, seriously, don't ask.)

_"I think he's here for you. He's been..chit chatting this entire time." _

John does smile at Sherlock's scornful tone but doesn't do anything to acknowledge it.

He's meeting the DI in a half and hour and is still debating if he should just grab new shoes and leave, even thought he desperately wants a shower.

It's just been one of those gross days. It may have just been the one patient who expelled body fluid onto him but he still felt like he's been dragged across the hospital flooring multiple times and all the germs and people are all over him. He shudders at the thought.

He gets his fixings ready, intending to take his cup into the bedroom and bathroom to get ready when he hears Mycroft next words.

"I hear there is a new sergeant at the Yard, a Micah Clarke." The politician says and John's moving as soon as he hears the word 'sergeant'. By the time Mycroft is finished with his statement, John is standing right in front of the older man, the empty tea cup in one hand and a spoon in the other.

"No." John says firmly as he attempts to cross his arms across his chest but the tea cup and spoon get in the way and John stares with a bemused and clueless expression for half a second before putting the two items down on the table next to Mycroft and then crossing his arms successfully.

Neither of the Holmes react, although there is a hint of curiosity and smugness coming from Sherlock that John doesn't evaluate at the moment.

"No." John says again for emphasis and the elder Holmes has the decency to look a bit surprised even though John knows it's fake.

The smugness radiates across the link and it takes a bit for John to understand why Sherlock is pleased.

_"He did come here for you." _Sherlock says as if (ironically) reading John's mind.

Well, the detective is right, for some reason Mycroft came here to talk to John and the doctor has a sneaking suspicion that it has to do with Clarke.

"John-" Mycroft starts, unaware or ignoring Sherlock's expression, as his face remains blank and unyielding. John isn't intimidated easily.

"No. Leave him alone." John says solidly, unconsciously leaning forward trying his own form of intimidation.

Which, in any other situation, would have been hilarious. The fact that John could ever intimidate the British Government is laughable, but John, especially after hearing Clarke's past and wariness of threats, feels weirdly defensive of the young man and Clarke does not need someone like Mycroft on his tail.

The politician doesn't say anything, instead an eyebrow raises.

"Sentimental." Mycroft huffs with contempt and John almost growls.

"Protective." John bites back with the same tone. "How did you even find out?" He asks with exasperation.

"Same way I found out about you." Mycroft responds with a wave of his hand, dismissing John's stupid question. "Lucky, isn't it? How he found you in time? Despite the fact that no-one had been ordered to search in the area you were succumbing to hypothermia in."

John scowls, that's going to bite Clarke in the arse for a while.

The doctor stiffens even more, looking Mycroft straight in the eye. "Seriously don't." He adds forcefully. "He's already got a job."

Mycroft hums in response and seems contemplative.

John wonders if he's just sealed Clarke's doom.

"Oh, come off it, we do not need you kidnapping and scaring the boy, Mycroft." Sherlock finally decides to talk, adding his snide remark in. Whether or not it's helpful is another story.

Nonetheless, John is grateful for the support, so he sends a wave of gratitude into the bond along with a smile.

"Just leave him be Mycroft. You owe me." John says darkly, wanting to finish the discussion.

It's a low blow, he knows, but the older man still harbors something akin to guilt for lying to Sherlock and manipulating John into 'death'.

In return, John gets a small glare from Mycroft but the politician visibly deflates.

"Fine. Fine." The older man says, standing up with a sigh. "I will not seek him out then."

And its enough of a concession that John relaxes as well.

The politician wordlessly rises from John's chair and moves to leave.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." Mycroft says walking out and John is taken back by the abruptness of it.

The doctor looks at the door, empty now that Mycroft had started descending the stairs, and narrows his eyes suspisicously.

It can't possibly be that easy. Mycroft agreed and then left.

No way.

John whips his head around and meets Sherlock's gaze. The detective just shrugs and flops onto the couch with a dramatic flail. He picks up his violin, which had been on the ground for some reason, and starts to play.

John is left gaping slightly, dumbly turning his head from the empty doorway to Sherlock.

No, seriously, it can't be that easy.

He sighs and looks down at his watch, cursing the elder Holmes.

He's going to be late now to meet Greg.

Oh great, what's he going to tell Greg?

'Sorry I'm late, your boyfriend is a twat.'

Well maybe he could do just that, it's not like Greg doesn't know this already.

* * *

><p>The next day just so happens to be John's day off and coincidently Sherlock has a case. So Baker Street's been abuzz with excitement since the early hours of the morning. Sherlock had already gone to the crime scene, tricky double murder, and is now shuffling a tired John into his jacket and shoes.<p>

Sherlock practically pushes John down the stairs and out the door, into a waiting cab.

Excitement and concentration are emitting from the bond and John spends the ride to Scotland Yard in silence, letting the man beside him think. He can feel the rapid-fire thoughts zipping around the surfaces of Sherlock's brain and John smiles in the familiarity and warmth.

Its situations like these that John second guesses his doubts. He could just put shields up and forget about his gift, his specialty. But then he would miss out on the things that he treasures.

He would miss out on Sherlock's thoughts, whipping with alarming and fascinating speed all around his brain as thoughts form and disappear.

He would never see the detective's mind palace again. The exquisite but modestly decorated rooms that make up the palace, along with Sherlock's 'throne room'. He would never be able to tour the mind palace again, or see the room that specifically belongs to him.

He's still debating, even telling himself that he could just keep Sherlock and his own links' open and shut everyone else out. The doctor doesn't think that will work. It has to be all or nothing type of deal or John will slip.

It'll start as keeping the connection open and then John will forget to why he built up mental shields to begin with and next thing one knows, John's a danger again.

No, it's got to be all or nothing.

John sighs.

The taxi-cab slows to a stop, stirring John out of is memories, causing the man to look around briefly before getting out of the car. He follows Sherlock into NSY and puts his thoughts away for the moment, focusing back on the case.

John doesn't know much about the case yet, he just caught glimpses of their itinerary for the day. Sherlock needs to speak to Lestrade about something or another and then they are going to the morgue, Sherlock to hassle Molly and John to placate her afterwords. Those are John's words, not Sherlock's, the detective's thoughts were a lot more scientific and bloody with random flashes of bruise patterns.

John walks in step with the genius as they clamber into the elevator silently. He's so use to not knowing the full details and he doesn't mind so much anymore. He knows that on the way to Barts, he'll get Sherlock to tell him the full details of the case so that John will have an accurate account for his blog.

As the elevator doors open, Sherlock and his freakishly long gait shoots out of the elevator. Typical.

John follows leisurely with amusement as he twists and turns down hallways and around the occasional desk, smiling and saying hello. He paces himself slowly, hoping that he'll arrive just in time and Lestrade and Sherlock's traditional yelling (or in their case, hellos) will already be over.

He turns the second to last corner and looks at the gathering of desks that make up the bull pen. He's about to continue to walk on when he sees something out of the corner of his eye. A hallway to the far left of him has a person standing in it. Not just any person, John would recognize that ridiculously expensive 3-piece suit anywhere.

This can't be good.

He turns abruptly and moves to approach the older man. Mycroft has his back to the doctor but John isn't stupid enough to know that the politician already knows he's here.

He intends to say hello, or at the very least bugger off, it depends on how irritating the older man is today.

John moves around the last desk, ready to open his mouth to speak.

What he doesn't expect to see, as he gets closer and there's a side view revealing Mycroft and Sergeant Clarke. The younger empath looks to be hunched, severly dwarfed by the man's height and imposing nature.

"Mycroft Holmes." John growls out quietly but harshly. Taking the last step, he puts himself between Clarke and the older man, glaring at Mycroft icily.

The politician merely sneers but looks at John with a smug, and faintly irritated expression.

Clarke just looks confused and a bit scared. (Can't blame him, really).

"What did I say?" John demands, trying to keep his voice low but firm and straightens himself to block Clarke.

"Come now, John." Mycroft says, rolling his eyes, and the doctor can tell he's annoyed. Probably because he got caught.

"We agreed." John bites out and Mycroft shakes his head.

"I simply said I wouldn't seek him out." Mycroft whispers back with the same harshness. "It just so happened to be a _coincidence_ that he works in the same place as Gregory." Mycroft smiles smugly and John fights hard to stop from yelling.

"It's fine-" Clarke starts but John doesn't pay attention to him, narrow his eyes at Mycroft's hawk-like gaze.

"You better hope that Greg doesn't find out the real reason you came by today." John starts, "I don't think he'd be very appreciative of being used to get to his employees." John says just as smugly.

Mycroft blanches, at least, it looks like a blanch so John smiles in satisfaction. The politician narrows his eyes at John, as if daring him to tattle to Greg.

"It's okay, John." Clarke says meekly, putting a hesitating hand on John's shoulder. John turns to the side a little, facing Clarke. The man shakes his head and clears his throat. "Really, it's fine."

Mycroft tears his gaze from the angry doctor and gives the sergeant a once over.

"You are just very intense." Clarke babbles, straightening himself out from his startled, hunch over posture that he adapted when Mycroft had ambushed him a few minutes ago.

John gives the young man a once over and sighs. He doesn't look scarred or scared (anymore than usual, anyway). In fact, he looks blank and indifferent, kind of like he did when he had first met Sherlock.

Interesting.

John snaps his attention back to Mycroft. "You are done here." John says and it's not a question. He moves slightly in front of Clarke again, glaring at the elder Holmes.

Mycroft's shoulders move up and down as if he heaved a sigh but no sounds comes out. "I believe I got what I needed." Mycroft says diplomatically as he grips his umbrella and turns to leave. "Goodbye John, Sergeant." Mycroft nods to them individually and with that he's gone.

John lets out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding in. He watches intensely, as his anger starts to gradually fade as the threat leaves, until Mycroft is out of sight (and then a few seconds after that) and turns to Clarke.

The man doesn't look any worse for wear and John examines him for a few minutes that stretch awkwardly for Clarke.

The doctor suddenly realizes that he hasn't seen Clarke since the closet a few days ago. And, whereas John has had a huge philosophical overhaul, Clarke is still running with the same thoughts and mindset.

And he's probably angry.

Now that Mycroft is gone and the threat has been neutralized, Clarke's eyes start to shift uncomfortably before the sergeant clears his throat.

"Well, I should get back-" The younger man starts to say.

"What did he say?" John interrupts, his curiosity getting the better of him. He wants to know what happened and how mad he should be at Mycroft. Not to mention the fact that they both need to talk and this is as good of start as any.

Clarke straightens his posture defensively and John wonders, for a brief second, whether or not the man is going to answer.

After a minute, Clarke's mind rapidly debating on something, the sergeant finally says, "He offered me a job?" The sergeant tries to say it confidently but John can hear the hint of confusion making the statement into more of question. Then the young man adds, "I think?"

And John sighs with resignation. He kind of figured that's what happened anyway.

"He knows, doesn't he?" Clarke asks after a few silent seconds.

John, who had no been paying attention and staring distractedly beyond the man's head , whips his eyes back and looks into Clarke's gaze.

"Yes." John says simply. He's not sure where they stand. John can see the defensive posture and expression that screams frustration, uncertainty and even anger. John isn't an idiot, he knows how hard it was for Clarke to share, how hard it was to bring up those memories. The doctor understands the emotions radiating off the man's body language.

But, along with the anger, frustration, and uncertainty, there are smaller shifts of insecurity, grief, hurt, and even hope. Like Clarke trusts in John, or at least trusts that John isn't there to hurt him.

"Great. Awesome." Clarke says shortly, pulling John out of his analysis. The main emotion John sees is irritation and the doctor wonders how much of it is for Mycroft and how much of it is for himself.

"You seem to be taking it rather well." John whispers with worry. Its true, Clarke is irritated and frustrated but there is no fear, or at least his body is hiding the fear really well.

The sergeants eyes, which have been wondering, snap back and glare at John before saying, "Yes, well, I've had to rework my entire system of beliefs the past few days." It comes out snidely and before John can stop him, the sergeant is walking away. The doctor stares at the empty wall owlishly for a second, a bit stunned at the usually mild-tempered man's action.

He doesn't stare at the empty space for long and is soon darting after the young man.

"Clarke." John whipser-calls, weaving around random people and desk to try and catch up with the surprising fast man. One of the people he has to dodge just happens to be Donovan. The woman looks at the two of them curiously but doesn't say anything, instead, a quizzical look washes over her face. John doesn't spare her a verbal greeting, he gives an awkward, bland smile and hurries after Clarke.

Great. More questions.

The sergeant turns a corner and John follows, calling out another "Clarke."

The man finally stops, halfway down the deserted hallway, not to far from the closet that they both occupied not too long ago.

"Clarke, I'm sorry." John says once he reaches the man who lets out a long sigh.

"I didn't mean to bring up all the memories." John says, feeling at a lost. He's spent the last few days second-guessing everything about his gift and how Clarke's life was ruined because of something of the same power. The doctor doesn't know how to fix the fissure between them, or if it even needs to fixed. Would Clarke be better protected without the friendship, that had been blooming for the past month?

Meanwhile, Clarke seems to deflate with a long breath out and a hand pinches the bridge of his nose. "No." The sergeant says defeatedly and John looks at the man with confusion. "It's not your fault. I was upset with having to relive my past."

"I'm sorry. I just-" John starts again, trying to figure this out.

But, before John can finish his sentence, Clarke puts a hand up to stop the older man. "No." He says firmly again, making sure that they've established eye contact.

"Some twisted part of me wanted to tell you. A part of me that no ones seen before. I mean, Melissa doesn't even realize the extent of my gift or how my family really died. She just thinks I'm really perceptive on my 'off days'." Clarke pauses to chuckle darkly.

John is enraptured, listening with intensity as Clarke continues.

"I wanted to tell you because there's that part of me that found it a relief to meet someone like me, someone else that has gone through something simliar. Someone to help me with my burden." The sergeant's eyes shift downwards, seemingly uncomfortable with his confession.

And John is struck dumb with how young the action makes the man look. It blows the doctor away. John just wants to wrap his arms around the man, the 22-year-old boy, and protect him from the world and the possibility of someone coming after him.

"Clarke." John says with exasperation, he doesn't even know where to start.

Clarke's eyes remain downcast as one of his hands moves the back of his neck, rubbing the skin there self-consciously.

"I don't expect anything. I know I freaked out. I just-" Clarke starts to babble and John is taken aback.

"Stop." The doctor says and the sergeant's mouth shuts silently.

John feels like his brain is bouncing around in his head. Not two days ago, Clarke had stormed out on the doctor just after telling his most harrowing memory and now he wants to be friends?

"Of course." John says before he can even think it through.

"What?" The sergeant says looking up at John.

"Clarke," The older man starts, "I won't turn you away." He finishes with conviction.

John doesn't know what he's doing. Its not that he doesn't want to be friends with Clarke, in a way he does, but his mouth moved without his mind making the decision.

He must have seen the hope, fear, pain, hurt, grief, and anger washing over Clarke's body and his mouth just wanted to do something about it.

Also, they have more in common than John had originally thought. There is a little part of John, small and hidden away, that is lonely from time to time. Yes, he's got Sherlock and friends like Greg, Molly, and (heaven forbid) Mycroft, and not to mention his sister. But, none of those people know what it's like. None of those people are aware of the burden, the fear, the frustration that comes along with being abnormal, being dangerous even.

And here's Clarke, someone who not only knows some of what John has and is going through, but also, someone who understands the trials that usually follow in the wake of the gift.

Still, is this a good idea? What are they even? Friends? Acquaintances? Are they going to start crime-fighting together? (John smiles internally at that one. Wondering how quick Sherlock would get jealous and if he would have to wear tights).

He has all these doubts and questions but he looks at Clarke and sees the smile of relief and hope and the doubts just melt away into the background.

John knows how it feels, the encompassing relief and the hope. He felt it when Sherlock had originally found out, when he didn't have to hide who he was anymore, when he finally found someone to unburden himself onto.

And if he can be that for Clarke, because the man has no one else, then he will be.

"Really?" Clarke ask quietly.

"Really." The doctor says smiling and Clarke nods back, his body sagging with relief. The stare at each other for a moment and John's about to see if Clarke wants to grab a quick coffee and maybe talk some more (now that they've got the 'yes-we-are-officially-friends' debate over with).

A thought through the link interrupts the doctor before he even opens his mouth.

_"John. Where are you?" _

John sighs and Clarke, damn the man really, seems to know because he chuckles and turns to walk towards Lestrade's office.

There isn't any rest of the wicked, it seems.


End file.
